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HEUOTYPE   PRINTING   CO.,    BOSTON. 


A 

POETIC  OFFERING 


TO 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


REV.    L.    C.    McKINSTRY 


,  17,  1807  —  1834 


HAEC    OL1M  MEMINISSE    JUVABIT 


HAVERHILL,  MASS. 

PUBLISHED    BY    L.    C.    McKINSTRY 

1890 


MAIN  UJSURY 


COPYRIGHT,  1890, 
BY  L.   C.   MCKINSTRY. 

To  be  credited  if  quoted. 


p 


TO   THE  PUBLIC. 


ALTHOUGH  the  personal  character  of  the  address 
of  this  poem  may  seem  to  suggest  a  private  corre- 
spondence, yet  the  subjects  discussed,  and  the  gen- 
eral esteem  with  which  Mr.  Whittier  is  held,  seem 
to  excuse  the  presentation  of  it  to  the  public  with 
the  presumption  that  all  will  join  with  the  author 
in  extending  to  the  venerable  poet,  greetings  and 
congratulations,  and  say,  — 

Greetings  to  thee,  thou  friend  of  man, 

Thy  life  has  been  a  boon  to  earth ; 
Thy  years,  through  all  their  long-stretched  span, 

Have  been  a  blessing  from  thy  birth. 

Ever  the  world  shall  bless  thy  name ; 

Ever,  shall  men,  its  accents  greet ; 
And,  through  all  onward  years,  thy  fame 

Shall  grow  and  glow,  with  praise  replete. 

Our  offering  is  not  made  with  claim  of  great 
merit,  —  only  the  merit  of  sincere  good  will.  The 
public  is  left  to  judge  of  it  further.  We  are  de- 
cided in  our  opinions,  especially  of  that  old  institu- 
tion,of  slavery,  which  has  now  passed  through  tlr> 
furnace-blast  for  the  melting  into  a  better  mould. 


839 


4  TO   THE  PUBLIC. 

although,  from  present  indications,  there  is  need 
of  a  recasting,  as  it  appears  that,  by  some  mishap, 
the  melting  was  not  thorough,  for  there  are  ves- 
tiges of  the  old  form  remaining  in  the  hatred  of 
the  blacks  by  the  whites  of  the  South. 

But  we  earnestly  pray  that  the  country  may  be 
spared  the  ordeal  of  another  blast  of  the  red  fires 
of  war,  such  as  we  have  so  recently  passed  through, 
and  that  soon  "  equal  rights  "  may,  as  justice  dic- 
tates, be  accorded  to  all  who  respect  the  flag,  with- 
out regard  to  color  or  social  condition,  and  all  be 
treated  with  respect  who  are  morally  respectable. 

With  this  prayer  and  this  hope  we  send  out  this 
book,  earnestly  desiring  that  it  may  aid  in  some 
small  degree  to  the  promotion  of  the  much-desired 
end. 

L.  C.  M. 

HAVERHILL,  MASS. 


TO 

JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


DEAK  SIR  :  — -To  thee  my  thoughts  are  turned 

For  valid  reasons  —  I  remember 
That  thou  and  I  are,  both,  concerned 

To  note  this  crispy,  bright  December. 

For,  midway  'twixt  its  outstretched  ends, 
This  seventeenth,  we,  both,  were  born, 

First  thou,  then  I,  thus  fortune  lends 
Its  aid  to  me,  some  later  on. 

These  birth-events  were  thus  inlaid, 

Mosaics,  in  this  Yankee  Land, 
Under  our  Liberty  Tree's  fair  shade, 

Which  doth,  outspreading,  grandly  stand. 


6  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

Our  fathers  named  this.  FREEDOM'S  Owx, 
And  swore  to  heaven,  that  their  blood 

Should  freely  flow,  e'er  monarch's  throne 
Should  here  stand,  or  th'  soil  be  despvt-t /•*.».'. 

They  meant  it,  too,  and  did  that  deed, 
Their  blood  was  shed,  —  the  soil  is  free, 

And  despot  monarclis  well  must  heed, 
What  those  brave  patriots  said  should  be. 

So  here,  'neatli  this  wide-spreading  Tree, 
We,  like  the  flocks,  most  peaceful,  rest, 

And  thank  our  God  that  we  are  free,          9 
And,  by  His  fostering  care,  are  blest. 

No  place  is  here  for  grade  or  clan, 
For  claim  of  high-blood's  better  state, 

But  each  is,  in  himself,  a  man, 
And  each,  as  any  other,  great. 

It  is  high  honor  to  be  born 

Here,  any  day.  in  all  the  year, 
But  this  good  seventeenth's  glad  morn, 

To  me,  is  sweetly,  doubly  dear. 


DOUBLE    HONOR. 

So,  double  honor,  have  I,  'neath 

This  Nation's  Tree  on  thy  birthday, 

And,  thereby  have  I  that  bequeatJi, 
Which  gives  me  honor,  every  way. 

No  orient  king  could  e'er  bestow 

Such  gift,  though  he  had  tons  of  gold, 

And  I,  my  birth-right's  presage  know, 
Though  half  its  privilege  can't  be  told. 

It  is  a  gift  of  right,  to  be 

All  that  one  can,  f  ull-souled,  desire, 
To  be  unshackled,  always  free, 

And  feel  within  heaven's  holy  fire, 

Stirring  the  manhood's  spirit  up, 

To  deeds  of  honor,  truth,  and  right ; 

To  drink  of  learning's  costal  cup, 
And  ever,  for  the  wronged,  to  fight. 

And  not  to  despots  proud,  to  kneel, 
Nor  have  their  minions  kneel  to  us, 

But  ever  with  true  heart  to  feel, 
That  honor,  high,  is   only  thus. 


3  JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Here  wast  thou  born,  thy  Country  told 
But  twenty  years,1  of  its  life,  when 

The  jewelled  doors  did  back  unfold, 
And  ushered  thee  to  mortal  ken. 

Rung,  out  the  silvery  bells  their  chime, 
To  sound  thy  birthday  to  the  spheres, 

That  all  the  world  might  note  the  time, 
When  Freedom's  Friend  began  his  years. 

Then,  when  the  first  full  twenty-seven 

Of  thy  young  manhood's  years  had  flown, 

/came,  and  a  good  kindly  Heaven 
Gave  me,  thy  birthday  for  my  own. 

Two  staid  old  towns  —  few  miles  apart, 
Fair  Haverhill  and  West  Newbury,2 

Gave  to  our  heritage  the  start, 
The  first  to  thee,  the  last  to  me. 

The  beautiful  MoRODEMAK,3 

"  Deep  River"  flowing  to  the  sea, 

Or,  regurgitate,  tide-turned  aback, 
Is  silver  cord  —  our  bond  to  be. 

1  I  reckon  from  ratification  of  the  Constitution,  Sept.  17, 1787. 

2  Massachusetts. 

3  The  Abenelds  Indians  say  their  people  named  the  river,  and 
that  this  is  the  original  spelling  and  meaning  of  Merrimack. 


THE   MORE   AND   LESS.  9 

The  Town  clerks,  faithful  men,  wrote  down 
The  birth-event,  with  name  and  date, 

That,  henceforth,  should  each  good  old  town, 
To  coming  years,  the  tale  relate. 

DECEMBER  SEVENTEENTH,  alike, 

With  "eighteen,  seven,"  and,  "thirty-four," 

That,  as  the  years,  time's  clock  shall  strike, 
We'll  know  our  ages,  less  or  more. 

Thine  are  the  "  MORE  "   -  the  "  less  "  are  mine, 

Less,  in  more  senses,  sir,  than  one ; 
Less,  as  to  years,  are  mine  than  thine, 

And  less,  in  deeds  of  honor  done.  % 

But  'tis  my  birthday,  fill  the  same, 

And,  by  it,  I  my  honor  wear, 
What's  "  in  it,"  is  more  bright  than  name, 

It  shines,  like  Luna,  clear  and  fair, 

Opaque,  but  for  the  Sun's  broad  light, 

But,  shining  in  his  borrowed  blaze, 
She  doth  illume  the  rayless  night, 

And  men,  with  pleasure,  on  her  gaze, 


10          JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Thou  art  the  Sun,  —  I  but  the  Moon, 

But  still  I  find  a  light,  a  ray 
Comes  to  me,  as  a  treasured  boon, 

Because  I  came  on  thy  birthday. 

Please,  sir,  excuse  me,  though  I  seem 

To  light  my  taper  at  th}-  fire, 
And  bask  me,  in  its  pleasant  gleam, 

As  thus,  to  thee,  I  venture  nigher. 

Wilt  let  me,  kindly  ?     Then  I  sit 

With  sweet  content,  down  at  thy  side, 

With  my  poor  taper  thus  a-lit. 

Like  one  who,  thus,  for  rest  has  hied. 

Thy  birthday,  mine,  most  surely  is, 

Mine  own  —  and  why  should  not,  then,  I, 

Though  my  flame's  fame  is  "  in  the  miz"  1 
Sit  by  thee,  in  close  friendship,  nigh  ? 

As  thus  I  sit,  and  see  thee  smile, 
By  thy  consent,  it  makes  me  feel, 

As  I  thus,  passing  hours  beguile, 
I  do  not,  of  thine  honor,  steal. 

1  A  little  girl  who  heard  read  in  Genesis  "that  God  made 
"all  that  in  them  is"  understood  it  "in  the  miz,"  uncer- 
tainty, rnist ;  so  I  use  it, 


LOOKING    BACKWARD.  11 

I  sit,  and  the  long  vista  scan, 

The  vista  of  thy  well-spent  years, 

Thou,  noble  heart  —  well-ripened,  man, 
Whose  birthday  mine,  so  sweetly,  cheers. 

But  thou  canst  scan  far  more  than  I, 
As  thou  dost,  at  life's  calmest  eve, 

Look  back,  with  misti-filled,  saddened  eye, 
To  when  thou  didst  thy  life  receive. 

Almost  to  then,  —  to  youthful  days, 
To  home,  to  parents,  days  when  care 

Was  not  on  thee,  with  torrid  rays, 
For  boyhood  did  no  burdens  bear. 

Fresh  come  those  days,  more  fresh  than  those 

Which  intervene  of  busier  life, 
Or  later  when  in  calm  repose 

Thy  mind  keeps  back  from  scenes  a-rife. 

Though  long  the  road  thy  feet  have  trod ; 

Many  life's  milestones,  as  they've  passed ; 
Trusting  thy  soul  a-firm  with  God, 

Till  thou  hast  come  to  here  at  last. 


12         JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

These  scenes  come  not  to  me  —  for  I 

Thy  birthplace  home  ne'er  saw  nor  knew ; 

Nor  scenes  thy  boyhood  passed  hard  by, 
Xor  what  thy  hands  were  fond  to  do. 

But  thy  mind's  eye  takes  all  the  scene, 
And  mine  —  the  scene  of  my  young*  days, 

As  flits  the  light  and  shade  between, 
And  leaves  it  partly  in  a  haze. 

I  speak  my  birthplace.     It  had  mark 

On  "  Crane  neck  road,"  up  toward  the  hill, 

And  if  the  shadows  come  —  the  dark 
Or  light  reveals  niy  home  there  still. 

That  is,  to  memory  —  from  the  place 
The  house  is  gone,  and  bramble-grown 

The  grounds  —  there's  but  an  outline  trace, 
Of  what  I  still  declare  "  my  own." 

My  own  ?   although  the  title-deed 
And  claim  of  legal  right  has  passed, 

To  other  hands,  I'll  not  concede 
My  claim  to  it  while  life  shall  last. 


THE    HOMESTEAD.  13 

For  if  in  mental  state  alone, 

The  cottage,  humble  home,  yet  stands, 
It  is  in  this  full-well  my  own, 

Although  a  house  not  made  with  hands. 

And  none  can  rob  me  of  the  power 

Which  memory  gives,  and  vision  bright, 

To  keep  it  as  a  holy  dower, 

In  my  own  heart,  by  sacred  right. 

Forty -jive  feet  by  thirty-two, 

Was  all  the  land  my  father  owned, 

Yet,  did  the  best  that  he  could  do, 
And,  in  that  "  castle,"  was  enthroned. 

It  was  my  home,  —  it  is  so  still, 

As  then,  though  gone  the  loved  ones  now, 
And  tears,  my  eyes,  with  sadness  nil, 

As,  at  its  shrine,  I  reverent  bow. 

Oh !   home,  sweet  home,  'tis  true,  'tis  true. 
That,  humble  though  the  place  may  be, 

Though  wander  we  'mid  scenes  all  new, 
"  No  place,  like  home,"  we  ever  see. 


14          JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

No  palace  built,  with  turrets  grand, 
Nor  titled  rank,  nor  coat  of  arms, 

Is  like  that  dearest  spot  of  land, 

To  hold  the  holiest  memory-charms. 

But  honors  are  not  birth-right,  no ; 

Nor  in  the  blood,  nor  in  the  ground ; 
The  well-born  man  doth,  well-sensed,  know, 

High  worth  alone,  high  place  hath  found. 

There  is  no  caste  of  rank  or  clan ; 

True  manhood,  by  no  "  blood-birth,"  is ; 
He,  who  is  right,  is  the  riglit  man, 

Whatever  his  birthplace  or  his  phiz. 

So,  high  or  low,  the  place  of  birth 
Is  nothing,  if  one,  manhood,  lack ; 

Though  nameless,  'mong  the  sons  of  earth  ; 
He  stands,  who  has  the  stiffest  back 

Of  moral  rectitude,  and  holds 

His  head,  with  conscious  honor,  up, 

And,  in  his  hands  his  life  controls  ; 
He  may,  with  kings,  right  royal,  sup. 


TRUE    HONOR.  15 

Though  high-born,  one  cannot  be  tvise, 

If  low-born  in  his  soul,  he  be ; 
He  in  his  low-born  meanness  dies; 

There's  no  high  place  for  such  as  he. 

Name-honor  is  but  clingy  rags, 

That  dangling  hang  about  a  name, 

In  festoon  ;  musty-odored  tags, 
Which  smell  of  antiquated  fame. 

Man  is  not  great  by  accident 

Or  favored  place,  or  kith  or  kin, 
Tis  only  by  the  high  intent, 
The  purpose  strong,  that  winners  win. 

Genius  is  nothing,  lying  still, 

And  accident  is  fickle,  quite, 
And  'tis  alone  by  active  will, 

And  brain  and  brawn,  one  wins  the  fight. 

So  one  alone,  who  dignifies 

His  name,  with  manhood's  high  estate, 
Himself,  with  all  the  best  supplies, 

And  is,  in  truest  greatness,  great. 


16         JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

You,  sir,  have  never  sought  for  fame, 
Nor  I,  —  we  had  another  way, 

Open  to  all,  alike  the  same, 

And  "  whosoever  will,"  he  may 

Walk  therein,  and  be  counted  wise 
Doing  his  best ;  —  with  love  for  all, 

Making  the  highest  good  his  prize  ; 
He  never  shall,  who  doth  thus,  fall. 

Now,  like  the  clouds  that  hurry  by, 
Our  days  tale-told  have  passed  away, 

And  soon  will  come  the  day  to  die, 
As  came  our  earliest  natal  day. 

We've  aged;  thou  more,  much,  than  I, 
As  thy  full  years  are  more  than  mine, 

And  mayhap  sooner,  sir,  wilt  try 
The  dark,  death-gateway  to  divine. 

But  yet  awhile  we  hope  thou  'It  wait, 
And  we  shall  have  thee  'mongst  us  still, 

Ere  yet  shall  outward  swing  that  gate, 
For  who  thy  place  that  time  shall  fill. 


THE    POET'S    PEN.  17 

'Tis  cheer  for  us,  as  though  didst  stand 

A  priest,  white-robed,  heaven-sent,  to  bless; 

To  hallow  all  our  peaceful  land, 

While  all  do  thy  sweet  name  confess. 

For  everywhere  with  tenderest  care 

Men  treasure  thee,  and  speak  thy  worth 

As,  of  a  valued  fame  most  rare, 

And  thank  our  God  for  thy  good  birth. 

It  is  the  praise  of  men  who  saw 

Thy  love  and  work,  for  truth  and  right, 

The  spirit  of  the  unwritten  law ; 
As  angel's  wing,  as  pure  and  white. 

Taking  the  part  of  those  oppressed, 
The  outcasts  and  the  lowly  ones, 

Whom  men  had  cursed,  and  knew  not  rest ; 
The  dark-skinned  race  of  Afric's  sons. 

Thy  pen,  which  was  thy  keen-edged  sword, 
Flashed,  like  the  lightning  when  the  rod 

Cloud-piercing,  hears  the  mighty  word, 
Which  tells  the  wrath  of  the  Great  God; 


18         JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Then  'twas  as  though  the  thunders  pealed, 
As  though  an  angry  cyclone  roared, 

And  that  iniquity  revealed, 

Which  stood  where-down  the  torrent  poured; 

Then  'twas,  again,  as  Moses'  rod, 

That  opened  wide  the  Red  Sea's  waves, 

Till  the  oppressed,  the  dry  path  trod, 

And  oppressors  found  their  watery  graves; 

Then,  like  the  red,  Idumean  sword, 

Bathed  in  the  blood  of  thousands  slain ; 

And,  then,  like  the  true  prophet's  word, 
Which  brought  the  fearful  bloody  rain. 

For,  came,  at  last,  that  scourge  of  heaven, 
The  war  —  which  felled,  beneath  its  stroke, 

The  oppressor,  curse,  concreting  seven, 
And  thus  the  cruel  bondage  broke. 

Then,  like  a  spirit  sent  to  break 
The  fetters  of  the  crouching  slave, 

Our  Lincoln  did  the  order  make 

Which  set  him  free,  his  rights  to  save. 


SLAVERY   SELF-DESTROYING.  19 

That  was  a  day  to  live  to  see, 

You  saw  it,  sir,  and  so  did  I, 
And,  ever,  shall  its  memory  be, 

Fresh  hi  our  souls  until  we  die. 

Our  good  Republic,  then,  was  made 
To  tremble  'neath  the  battle's  tread ; 

And  everywhere  were  men  afraid, 

As  ran  the  blood  streams,  hot  and  red. 

Her  life  was  threatened,  as  the  blast 
Of  ruthless  war  swept  o'er  her  head  ; 

Thank  God  it  did  no  longer  last, 
And  Slavery  is  forever  dead. 

He  raised  his  hand  against  her  life, 
The  blow  fell  on  his  own  bad  pate, 

And  in  that  bitter,  vengeful  strife, 
He  slew  himself,  in  his  hot  hate. 

On  us  was  brought  that  civil  war, 

And  drenched  the  land  with  human  gore, 

Defiant  of  our  holy  law, 

Until  we  moaned  with  sorrow,  sore. 


20         JOHN    GREEN  LEAF    WHITTIER. 

They  said  the  State  had  higher  rights 
Than  the  Great  Union,  and  they  claimed 

That  he  a  patriot  is  who  fights, 

To  break  the  arch  by  patriots  framed. 

"  State  rights,"  they  claimed,  forgetting  then 
The  States  in  Union  bonds  were  bound ; 

And  one  flag  floating  o'er  them,  when 
They  were  not  in  base  treason  found, 

Meant  Union,  over  the  wide  world, 
And  one  good  brotherhood,  and  all, 

Where'er  our  banner  is  unfurled, 
Must  for  the  Union  stand  or  fall. 

It  is  foul  treason  to  declare 

That  States  in  bond,  can  separate, 

And  under  some  new  flag  to  swear 
The  old  flag  and  its  stars  to  hate. 

As  well  may,  at  the  altar,  he 

Who,  to  his  bride,  his  vow  declares, 

Dare  break  that  vow,  and  say  I'm  free ;  — 
Perjures  his  soul,  he  who  thus  swears. 


NO    PLACE    FOR    SLAVERY.  21 

But  Slavery  bad  its  stronghold  there ; 

For  it  men  braved  themselves  to  fight, 
And  rend  apart  our  flag  so  fair, 

And  trample  on  each  sacred  right. 

It  was  so  strange,  when  they  had  stood, 
Our  patriot  fathers,  strong  and  free, 

And  fought  for  what  was  highest  good  — 
The  blessed  boon  of  liberty, 

That  these,  their  sons,  should  read  between 

The  lines,  another  story,  see 
Another  form  —  of  hideous  mien, 

The  accursed  form  of  Slavery. 

It  had  no  place  beneath  the  sun, 

Our  flag  no  shelter  to  it  gave, 
And  that  foul,  direful  deed  was  done 

Which  made  of  man  a  chattel-slave. 

Contrary  to  all  the  inward  sense 
Of  right  and  justice,  and  the  name 

Of  manhood.     It  was  vain  pretence 
TO  excuse  it  —  and  a  burning  shame. 


• 

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2-1          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Though  white  was  he,  his  fellow,  black, 
And  though  he  thought  white,  better  done, 

Yet  that  hue  which  it  had  caught,  back 
Beneath  the  blazing  torrid  sun, 

Was  just  as  good  —  once,  better  far, 
When,  in  the  far-off  days,  the  Slav 

Was  white,  and  he  who  drove  the  car 

Which  slave  men  drew  —  did  black  skin  have. 

'Twas  thus  when  Israel  in  the  land 
Of  Egypt,  bowed  beneath  their  load, 

Under  the  hard  task-master's  hand, 

Spurred  on  by  the  sharp  stinging  goad. 

It  may  not  be  a  pleasant  sight 

For  blue-blood  white-men  thus  to  look 

Back,  but  the  claim  is  surely  right, 

As  may  be  learned  from  history's  book. 

The  change  has  come,  mirabili, 

The  whites  exchanged  the  place,  and  lo  ! 
The  blacks  were  slaves,  the  master  he 

Who  once  the  slave's  sad  lot  did  know. 


IT   HAS    GONE.  25 

How  strange  but  human-like,  it  is, 

That,  give  the  oppressed  one  but  the  power, 

And.  he  will  put  his  master-phiz 

Where  he  can  rule,  for  his  brief  hour. 

But  that  ne'er  justifies  the  wrong, 
Nor  makes  a  right  of  what  is  bad ; 

The  weak  o'erpowered  by  the  strong 
Can  only  make  the  bad  fiends  glad. 

Thank  God  the  accursed  thing  has  gone 

Into  the  land  of  darkest  night, 
Fled  as  the  darkness  at  the  dawn  ; 

Fled,  fugitive  before  the  right. 

Thou,  sir,  wast  sad,  and  thou  didst  grieve 
To  see  the  fetters  forged  so  strong ; 

And  much  it  did  thy  soul  relieve 
To  see  it  go  —  that  fearful  wrong. 

To  see  it  flee,  dismayed  away, 

And  thenceforth  know  the  slaves  were  free  ; 
And  thou  didst  hail  the  gladsome  day 

When  rang  the  shout  of  liberty. 


26          JOHN  GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Thou  saidst  with  God,  "ALL  MEN  ARE  ONE," 
One  blood,  one  brawn,  one  brain,  one  life ; 

And  when  at  last  the  deed  was  done, 
And  Slavery  ended  in  the  strife, 

Thou  didst  rejoice,  for  thou  hast  seen 
What  all  thy  life  was  spent  for  here, 

And  in  the  Golden  Glory- sheen 
The  angels  seem  to  thee  most  near. 

Thy  tears  have  flowed  for  Slavery's  sin, 
But  they  are  dried,  and  joy  is  thine, 

Because  the  right  did  victory  win, 
And  thy  sweet  joy  alike  is  mine. 

Thy  work  was  Christ-like,  when  the  pen, 
The  gyve,  the  whip,  the  auction-block 

Were  slavery's  paraphernalia,  then 
Thy  feet  were  on  the  Tarpeian  rock. 

With  thee  were  men  of  fervid  zeal, 
With  righteous  indignation  fraught, 

With  hearts  as  true  as  flint  to  steel ; 

And  everywhere  the  bright  flame  caught. 


WILLIAM  LLOYD    GARRISON.  27 

And  they  swore  solemnly  to  Heaven 
That  they  would  never  quit  the  fight 

Until  from  thence  the  curse  was  driven; 
Until  the  slave  should  have  his  right. 

And  some  were  mad  as  fiends  in  Hell, 
And  vowed  their  curses  on  the  head 

Of  those  who  dared  the  truth  to  tell, 
And  vowed  to  put  them  with  the  dead. 

Thou  and  thy  friends  who  thus  did  stand 

Wert  thus  loud  cursed,  and  much  oppressed ; 

But  all  were  dauntless,  and  at  hand 
To  stand  the  fiercest,  fiery  test ; 

True  to  the  interests  of  that  hour ; 

True  to  the  interests  of  the  slave ; 
Foes  to  that  fearful  demon-power; 

Though  threatened  with  the  martyr's  grave. 

There  was  LLOYD  GAKRISON  —  the  man 
Whose  heart  was  to  the  truth  most  true  ; 

Who  spurned  the  whole  slave-holding  clan, 
And  did  what  true  men  ought  to  do. 


28          JOHN   GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

He  would,  though  devils  raged,  be  heard, 
And  with  a  courage  grand  and  bold 

Did  speak  the  fearless,  unsmoothed  word, 
Until  his  tale  of  truth  was  told. 

I  mind  me  of  his  paper  now. 

The  Liberator  it,  Avhich  said, 
As  lightning  speaks  from  mountain  brow, 

With  words  most  unobscurely  read,  — 

u  The  constitution  of  these  States 
Is  covenant  with  death  and  hell ;  " 

While  it  of  freedom  loudly  prates, 
Under  its  guise  slave-holders  dwell. 

He  pictured,  too,  the  fettered  slave 
Appealing  !  —  "  Am  I  not  a  man, 

And  a  brother  ?  *'     Men  did  rave 

At  such  presumption.     'Twas  GOD'S  plan. 

The  auction-block,  the  slave-pen  too, 
That  close  friend  of  the  cattle  mart, 

The  master  with  his  whip  —  so  true 
To  life  —  with  scorning  heart- 


COURAGE.  29 

John  Wesley  said  —  and  well  said  he 
The  grand  old  saint,  the  holy  soul, 

"  'Tis  th'  sum  of  villainies."  We  see 
That  sum  to  heaven  its  columns  roll. 

So  thought  Lloyd  Garrison,  and  so 

He  said,  with  courage  strong  and  bold ; 

He  would  that  all  the  world  might  know 
That  men  could  not  be  bought  and  sold. 

He  thought  —  to  say,  "All  men  are  born  free 
And  equal,"  then,  some  to  enslave, 

A  travesty,  a  lie,  and  he 

Said  it,  with  courage  cool  and  brave. 

Courage  ?     No  hero  e'er  had  more, 
And  yet  his  heart  was  as  a  child's ; 

Warm,  tender,  gentle  to  the  core ; 
And  sunny  as  when  Summer  smiles. 

Few  are  like  him  —  most  cowards  are, 
Bold  darers,  brags  with  foes  not  near ; 

They  tell  how  much  to  do,  they  dare  ; 
But,  foemen  nigh,  they  flee  with  fear. 


30          JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

Not  so  our  Garrison,  not  he  ; 

Though  not  of  warrior  deeds  and  blood ; 
Yet  stood  so  fearless,  and  to  be 

Pelted  with  rotten  eggs  and  mud. 

All  for  the  right  and  for  the  slave ; 

He  dared  those  foes,  felt  all  their  ire  ; 
His  life's  best  work  he  freely  gave, 

And  burned  its  holiest  altar  fire. 

A  wall  of  adamant  he  stood ; 

A  fortress  and  a  mountain  strong ; 
Great,  wise,  high-purposed,  strong,  and  good ; 

A  foe  to  Slavery's  foulest  wrong. 

His  flag,  breeze-flung,  mast-head  was  nailed ; 

His  motto  there  was  blazoned,  dread ; 
And  many  its  grand  utterance  hailed, 

As  they  its  words  most  clearly  read. 

Some  cried,  Not  so.     It  may  be  true, 
But  say  it  not,  O  William,  hear ; 

Else  we  its  utterance  may  rue, 
For  much  a  bloody  war  we  fear. 


BATTLE    OF  RIGHT.  31 

And  he  knew  well,  as  well  as  they, 
Just  what  it  costs  to  champion  right ; 

But  he  his  conscience  must  obey, 

Though  he  should  perish  in  the  fight. 

He  knew  the  Man  of  Calvary  died, 
The  Christ,  the  peerless  ;  why  not  he 

Pour  out  his  blood  in  crimson  tide 
To  blot  the  curse  of  Slavery  ? 

Not,  with  the  bloody  sword  in  hand  ; 

Not,  midst  the  storm  of  iron- hail ; 
Not,  midst  the  soldiers  of  the  land ; 

Not,  clad  in  warrior's  coat  of  mail ; 

But,  dying  as  a  martyr  dies  ; 

Struck  down  by  bludgeon,  burned  with  fire, 
Amidst  the  rabble's  wildest  cries, 

With  fagots  lit  by  hatred's  ire. 

So,  die  the  martyrs  for  the  truth ; 

So,  fall  the  righteous,  brave  till  death ; 
So,  fall  all,  in  the  cruel  ruth 

Of  Hate-of-right's  hot,  vengeful  breath. 


J  /y.V    GREEXLEAF    WUITTIER. 

upon  tL 

hough  it  took  him  manv 
tjained  vicix  1;  and  ine 

For  him  this  wreath  wr.  ear. 

We  memorize  bis  name,  and  : 
TLa:  ever  :t  duD  le  eeoowaed, 

His  head,  with  fadeless  honor,  crowned. 

WILLIAM  L;  shall  be 

Kuo-.vj;  everywhere,  in  erery  land 

•  ; 
Roma's  hills  or  Afric's  strand 

CHABLES  SUMNEK  also;  he,  whose  tone 
-.8  resonant  as  the  clearest  hell  ; 

And  dared  it,  with  his  might,  to  telL 
Heard  all  his  woids,  till  not  one  more 


A:  A  ~:ii<te  hiuj  ou  the  S^aVr  Floor. 


CHAL.  r^ER. 

^     championed  Brooks  to  strike  the  blc 

ich  should  forever  silence  him. 
And  thus  that  noble  head  laid  low, 
With  all  that  chivalry's  bad  vim. 

But  -  Truth  crushed  down  will  rise  again, 

The  eternal  i  God  are  L. 

Wliile  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
iiid  his  worship; 

Thr.  :e  poet  — and  the  soul 

Of  truth,  t:  .ire, 

And  through  ges,     :i  they  roll. 

Shining  like  heaven's  brightest  star. 

Our  Suniner  proved  them,  for  he  rose 

A  wounded  lion,  from  his  mane 
Shaking  the  blood-dew,  and  his  i     - 

,  dn. 

• 
He  lived  to  speak,  on  Senate  tie 

Though  suffering  pain's  he: 

.  his  nerve-wires,  more 
Th  repeat* 


34         JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

He  lived,  pain-suffering,  to  speak ; 

Lived,  till  the  Slavery  ghoul  had  fled ; 
And  though  lie,  for  that  life  did  seek, 

Lo !  Brooks,  e'er  Sunnier  died,  was  dead. 

Then  Sumner  died  a  martyr's  death, 

And  everywhere  went  up  a  cry, 
That  thus  should  cease  that  noble  breath; 

That  he  should  thus,  by  Brooks'  hand,  die. 

But  not  until  he  saw  the  hour 

When  he  heard  Slavery's  funeral  knell, 

Not  till  the  toll,  with  magic  power 
Did  its  black  doom,  emphatic,  tell. 

His  brow  is  laurel-crowned,  and  light, 
Its  radiance  sheds  about  his  name ; 

It  glows  with  beauty,  ever  bright, 
Shining,  through  every  age  of  fame. 

* 
And  men  shall  speak  his  priceless  worth, 

While  Brooks  with  Arnold  shall  have  place  ; 
Sumner  has  gained  immortal  birth, 
While  Brooks  is  ever  in  disgrace. 


HENRY   WILSON.  35 

To  the  whole  race  of  kindred  men, 

Brooks'  name  shall  be  a  shameful  blot, 

Against  which  ever,  will  the  pen 

Write  this  —  "  His  memory  shall  rot."  l 

Not  e'en  his  friends  will  care  to  own 
His  name ;  like  Benedict  Arnold,  he 

Shall  be  accursed,  wherever  known, 
And  loaded  be,  with  infamy. 

He  struck  a  man  on  Senate-Floor, 
For  words  well-spoken  in  debate, 

And  covered  him  with  his  life-gore, 
And  all  because  of  vengeful  hate. 

Then  there  was  Henry  Wilson.     He, 
Who  Sumner's  colleague  was,  a  man 

For  Massachusetts'  boast,  to  be 
Forever  first,  in  freedom's  van. 

How  glorious  is  our  Wilson's  name, 
Who  never  faltered  from  his  word ! 

Dear,  ever  will  he  be  to  fame, 

His  voice,  like  lion's  roar  was  heard. 

1  Prov.  x.  7. 


36          JOHN  GREEN  LEAF  WHITTIER. 

Heard,  for  the  bondmen,  the  oppressed ; 

Heard,  for  the  right  against  the  wrong; 
Heard,  for  the  poor  and  the  distressed ; 

Heard,  for  the  weak  against  the  strong. 

Oh  Wilson !  name,  though  borrowed,  first, 
The  poor  boy's  waif-name,  now  it  stands, 

A  name  phenomenal ;  like  a  sunburst 

It  glows  and  gleams  through  far-off  lands. 


There  was  our  Phillips,  too,  whose  voice 
Was  clear  as  silver  trumpet-blast ; 

The  pure,  unsullied,  who  of  choice 
Did  stand  alone,  from  first  to  last. 

How  dared  he  every  rabble  throng, 
In  Faneuil  Hall  and  everywhere, 

Fighting  his  battles  well  and  long, 
Till  worn  at  last,  with  pain  and  care. 

He  championed  right  when  in  the  dust 
It  lay,  down-trodden,  bruised,  and  torn, 

Because  he  felt  its  cause  was  just, 

The-while  with  gyves  its  limbs  were  worn. 


WILSON'S  ELOQUENCE.  37 

He  raised  it,  ragged  and  besmeared ; 

Then  stood  beside  it,  like  a  king, 
While  angry  foes  with  eyes  a-bleared, 

Did,  at  him,  dirtiest  missiles  fling. 

I  see  him  now,  his  eyes  a-gleam  ; 

His  voice,  though  calm,  with  force  alive, 
Pouring  invective  like  a  stream 

Red-hot,  till  even  fiends  did  writhe. 

How  sharp  his  tongue,  yet  smooth  as  oil ; 

How  calm  his  words,  yet  full  of  fire, 
Sarcasm,  irony  ;   to  foil 

The  venomed  Serpent's  fiendish  ire. 

He  saw,  at  last,  the  victory  won ; 

He  saw  the  sullen  foe  shrink  back ; 
He  saw,  when  all  the  work  was  done ; 

He  saw,  with  courage  near  a-lack. 

Thank  God  he  lived,  and  saw  the  day 

When  he  could  speak,  and  cheer  on  cheer 

Greeted  his  words.  He  won  his  way, 
And  now  his  name  is,  henceforth,  dear. 


38         JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

We'll  build  for  him  memorial,  grand ; 

A  HALL,  to  truth  and  right ;  his  name 
Shall  grace  it,  it  shall  stand 

The  glorious  tribute  to  his  fame. 

What  a  grand  Galaxy  were  they, 

Those  patriot  men,  who,  side  by  side, 

Stood  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray, 

And  in  the  fight,  won,  e'er  they  died. 

Never,  one  swerved  from  path  of  right, 
Whatever  threatened  him.     They  knew 

The  fiery  perils  of  the  fight, 

But,  stood,  to  each,  and  honor,  true. 


We  mention,  now,  a  woman's  name, 

Well-known,  where'er  men,  hurrying,  go  ; 

World-wide,  with  ever  growing  fame  ; 

That  woman  —  HAIUUET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

What  work  her  trenchant  pen  did  do, 
When  she,  her  tale  of  Slavery,  told, 

Laid  bare  its  character,  —  So  true 
A  tale  will  ne'er  come  stale  and  old. 


HARRIET  BEECHER    STOWE.  o 

Full-humored  it,  with  wit  of  those, 
Who  bore,  so  well,  their  toilsome  lot ; 

Full-burdened  with  their  deep-throed  woes, 
Whose  human  sense,  masters  forgot. 

No  phase  of  life  but  she  portrayed ; 

No  character  but  she  described  ; 
And  well  she  Uncle  Tom  arrayed, 

In  Christian  honor,  till  he  died. 

Then,  in  full-contrast,  like  a  pearl, 

Set  in  the  polished,  native  jet, 
Was  EVA,  —  pure-souled,  loving  girl,  — 

Of  UNCLE  TOM,  the  Teacher-Pet. 

To  tell  him,  better,  of  the  home 

The  Bible  Home,  her  faith-clear  eyes 

Saw,  as  she  read,  whose  wall  and  dome 
Were,  to  her,  hopeful,  glad  surprise. 

Then,  when  at  length  poor  Tom  laid  down 
To  die,  whipped,  like  a  dog,  to  death, 

Was,  for  her  words,  the  martyr's  crown 
Brighter  —  as  breathed  he  his  last  breath. 


40          JOIIX   GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Oh,  she  who  told  that  tale,  did  do 
What,  else,  forever,  were  undone, 

What,  if  not  done,  we  still  might  view 
That  foul  Accursion,  'neath  the  Sun. 

Deep,  laid  she,  her  dynamite  train, 
Beneath  the  structure  Slavery  raised, 

We  heard,  we  felt,  when  o'er  the  main 
Came  the  explosion  —  God  be  praised, 

That  thus  a  woman's  hand  had  skill 
To  touch  the  button,  and  we  know, 

That  it  was,  by  Heaven's  good,  high  will, 
She  thus  did  slavery  overthrow. 

Aged  now  and  feeble,  still  she  lives, 
That  woman,  waiting  at  her  Rest ; 

Enjoying  what  her  prestige  gives  ; 
A  woman,  ranked  among  the  best, 

Happy,  while  in  her  evening  hour, 
She  feels  no  care,  and  knows  no  foe, 

As,  in  her  quiet,  rose-bloomed  bower, 
She  does,  the  well-done-plaudit,  know. 


MRS.    STOWE'S   QUIET  EVENING.       41 

A  pleasant  evening  to  her,  now  ; 

Her  laurels  never  hence  will  fade  ; 
Calmness  rests  sweetly  on  her  brow ; 

Her  credit-score  is  summed,  and  made. 

She  waits  content,  and,  if  it  be 

That  light  goes  out,  e'er  day  shall  close, 

Then,  still,  her  honor  shines,  and  she 
Shall,  only  fade,  as  fades  the  rose, 

Her  perfume  lingering  in  the  tale 
She  told,  in  all  its  classic  phrase ; 

When  she  lies  down  in  death's  still  vale, 
She  shall  be,  of  all  tongues,  the  praise. 

These  were  thy  friends,  and  thou  among 
Them,  in  the  Galaxy,  hast  place ; 

Named  in  all  lands  by  every  tongue, 

Crowned  with  high  honor,  truth,  and  grace. 

And,  as  thou  sittest  down  serene, 
In  life's  calm,  placid,  twilight  eve, 

Watching  the  shadows  intervene, 

Till  thou,  thy  summons  shalt  receive, 


42       JOHN    GREEN  LEAF    WHITTIER. 

Thou  seest  all  the  record-page 
Of  this  great  history  of  the  fight, 

Of  which,  henceforth,  the  wisest  sage, 
Shall  speak,  when  championing  the  right. 

Oh,  blessed  art  thou,  friend  of  man, 
Whose  pen  was  like  a  shaft  of  light, 

Which  through  the  darkness  sped,  to  span 
The  space  of  Slavery's  fearful  night. 

From  thee  /learned  of  Liberty, 
The  goddess  of  the  fairest  mold, 

And  in  her  face  I  learned  to  see, 

Slavery  condemned,  in  line-signs  bold. 

From  thee,  I  learned  to  love  the  slave, 
And  pray  to  God  to  set  him  free, 

His  friend,  the  true  one,  strong,  and  bold, 
I  saw  thee,  Whittier,  to  be. 

I  saw  thy  work,  I  saw  the  power, 

That  held  the  slave,  that  bade  him  toil 

Unpaid,  through  many  a  weary  hour, 
Until  my  blood,  did,  heated,  boil. 


WORK:    REST:    GIFTS.  43 

Oh,  'tis  not  strange,  that  now,  the  deed 
Is  done,  which  gave  him  liberty, 

And  he  is,  from  his  bondage  freed, 
Men  pay  their  honors  unto  thee, 

And  bring  thee  gifts,  upon  the  day, 

Tli'  anniversary  of  thy  birth, 
Showering  their  blessings  on  thy  way, 

As  on  the  chosen  of  the  earth. 

Oh  !  what  a  work  thy  hands  have  wrought; 

Oh !  what  a  history,  grand,  is  thine  ; 
Oh  !  what  a  boon  have  I,  thus  caught 

In  thy  birthday,  to  make  it  mine. 

Thy  work  is  nearly  done,  and  thou 
Mayest  now  be  longing  for  thy  rest, 

As,  on  thy  aged,  white-haired  brow, 
Flashes  the  radiance  of  the  blest. 

But  I,  perchance,  may  still  work  on, 
With  head,  with  all  my  earnest  heart ; 

When  thou  art,  to  the  death-shades,  gone, 
From  life,  and  all  its  scenes,  apart. 


44          JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WHITT1ER. 

Not  I  alone ;  all  men  may  find 

The  world  work-full,  for  those  in  need 

Of  helpful  hands,  and  true  words,  kind  ; 
Giving  to,  burdened  sufferers,  heed. 

The  sufferers,  crying  in  the  night ; 

The  weary,  with  their  burdening  cares; 
The  blinded,  crying  for  the  light ; 

The  helpless,  crying  for  our  prayers. 

And  who,  for  right's  sake  toils,  shall  find 
What  will  make  hearts  of  flesh,  so  feel 

The  burdens  which  the  cruel  bind. 
That  they,  as  with  an  arm  of  steel, 

Shall  wrench  the  bands  asunder,  though 
Bound  by  a  welding  furnace-blast ; 

Breaking  them,  as  a  thread  of  tow  : 
Them,  into  Ocean's  depths,  to  cast. 

And,  thus,  new  fields  before  us  lie, 

Where  foes  in  legions  strong  are  massed ; 

Who,  or  we,  must,  in  conflict,  die. 
And,  on  they  come,  in  fury  i 


THE    FREEDMEN'S    SOCIAL    STATUS.     45 

The  freedmen's  battles  are  not  fought, 

Although  full  citizens  they  be, 
Our  equals  ;  though  so  much  is  wrought, 

And  they  are  now,  forever  free. 

And,  though  they  in  full  manhood  stand, 

Equal  with  all,  before  the  law, 
Their  highest  privilege  to  command, 

With  rights  they  bravely  battled  for. 

Their  social  status  now  is  made 
The  question,  and  the  strife  is  on, 

The  war  of  races.     Sore  afraid 
Are  many,  sitting  down  forlorn, 

Or,  fleeing  to  some  other  clime, 

To  far  Liberia,  or  a  state, 
Where  they  may  dwell,  in  place  and  time 

Apart  from  others'  blue-blood,  hate. 

What  does  it  mean  ?     Where  is  the  sense 
Of  men  who  once  must  have  them  near, 

As  toiling  slaves  ?     What  the  pretence 
They  have  for  this,  is  not  quite  clear. 


46         JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

It  is  a  shame  —  a  burning  shame, 

That  color-lines  should,  thus,  be  drawn ; 

That  white-skins  should  the  black  ones  blame, 
As  though  themselves  were  better  born. 

What  had  they  of  their  white  to  say  ? 

What  could  they,  with  their  color  do  ? 
Sometimes,  to  mix  it  in  the  way, 

To  whiten  out  the  black  skin's  hue. 

Then,  for  the  stains  of  black,  still  there, 
Condemn  their  own  to  lowest  grade, 

Though  they  have  in  it  their  full  share, 
And  have,  their  low-born  lust,  betrayed. 

'Tis  a  dishonor,  thus  to  shun, 

Their  own  blood  —  their  own  kith  and  kin ; 
Those  rivulets  that,  'neath  black  skins  run, 

Have  strains,  too  much  of  theirs,  therein. 

Yet  in  the  cars  these  skins  can't  ride  ; 

Because  the  color  is  there  still ; 
Nor  in  a  city-home,  abide, 

Although  they  have  the  cash  and  will. 


A    STATE,    VS.    THE    UNITED    STATES.     4? 

Nor  can  black  children  go  to  school, 

Where  white  men's  children,  high-toned,  go, 

Although  they,  well-trained,  keep  each  rule, 
And  quick  adeptness,  clearly  show. 

Thus  'tis,  and  law  men  nullify, 

Which  gives,  to  all,  their  equal  dower, 

Of  Freedom-rights  ;  —  they  thus  defy, 

The  Great  Republic's  strong-armed  power. 

But  they  must  know  they  cannot  do, 

Such  hateful  deeds,  and  hold  their  place ; 

Our  Government,  forever  true, 

Must  stand  by  that  poor,  out-cast  race. 

The  Independent  States  may  claim, 
The  right  to  make  their  own  race-laws, 

But,  over  all  is  that  one  name, 

THE  UNITED  STATES,  to  bid  them  pause ; 

To  show  them  that  they  cannot  do, 

Whate'er,  as  States,  they  choose,  and  be 

Allowed  to  put  their  base  schemes  through, 
And  not  a  Federal  signal  see, 


48          JOHN  GREENLEAF    WftlTTIER. 

To  warn  them  that  our  government, 
Still  holds,  its  -sway,  and  can,  again, 

Show  'tis  her  high  and  right  intent, 
All  lawless  measures  to  restrain. 

She'll  do  it,  too,  and  law  shall  be, 

Through  every  State,  by  right  sustained, 

Though,  once,  again,  unwilled,  we  see, 
The  dreadful  storm  of  leaden  rain. 

The  boys  of  sixty-one,  still  live, 

And  have  begotten  many  a  son, 
And  they  are  ready,  and  will  give 

Their  lives,  that  truth's  rights  may  be  won. 

The  G.  A.  R.'s  and  S.  of  V.'s, 

Are  like  a  bond  of  glittering  gold, 

Fire-tried,  and  each,  with  keen  eye  sees 
Still,  the  star-striped  flag's  bright  folds. 

And  ballots,  or  the  bullets,  must 

Settle  the  question  through  the  land, 

For  this  grand  cause,  so  good  and  just ; 
Cause,  held  in  God's  almighty  hand. 


THE    BALLOT,    OR    THE    BULLET.         49 

Tis  ballots  first  —  the  freemen's  will 

Is  in  them,  as,  upon  the  sod, 
The  snow-flakes,  falling,  white  and  still, 

Are  the  winged  messengers  of  God- 

And  all,  their  ballot-rights,  must  have, 
Whate'er  their  race  or  color  be ; 

The  black  or  white,  the  celt  or  slav, 
Must  have  the  ballot's  ministry. 

Or  else  the  bullet  comes,  to  show 

The  nullifier  cannot  rule, 
But  must  the  fearful  ordeal  know, 

And  learn  in  war's  hot-tempered  school, 

The  lessons,  which  are  learned  alone, 
By  those  who  elsewhere  will  not  learn ; 

Who  Avill  not,  truth's  sweet  teachings  own, 
But  all  its  mandates,  madly  spurn. 

And,  if  the  Southron  would  have  peace, 
And  keep  the  hot-sped  bullet  back, 

Then  he,  his  tyranny,  must  cease, 
And  cease  to  persecute  the  black. 


50          JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

He  must  allow  each  man  his  place, 
Though  black  as  night,  his  color  be, 

And  cease,  because  of  dark-hued  face, 
To  brand  a  man  with  infamy. 

At  school,  at  church,  on  cars,  he  must 
Give  place  to  him,  as  other  men, 

It  is  his  right,  his  cause  is  just, 

And  all  the  world  should  say  Amen. 

And  woe  to  him,  who  dares  to  try, 
To  crowd  this  brother-man,  aside, 

Or  crush  him  down ;  the  law  is  nigh, 
And  such,  its  sentence  must  abide. 

For,  only,  when  its  claims  are  known, 
And  its  behests  are  recognized,. 

Do  men  their  proper  standing  own, 

Or  are  their  rights  in  due  sense,  prized. 

'Tis  thus  the  colored  man  has  place, 
Has  equal  rights  with  white  men  ;  he 

Of  truest  manhood  every  trace 
Shows,  though  'tis  set  in  ebony. 


THE  MONGOLIAN.  5l 

And  still  there  is  another  race, 

The  almond-eyed  Mongolians.     They 

Cannot  here,  have  a  home-place, 

But  must,  with  haste,  hie  them  away 

From  this  fair  land,  where  Freedom's  bird 
Sits,  meditate ;  or  spreads  his  wings 

Sun-eying,  till  his  scream  is  heard 

Where  th'  Sun,  his  light  o'er  mount-peak  flings. 

Oh,  eagle !  proud  bird  of  our  land  ! 

What  think  ye,  as  ye  scream  on  high, 
Of  this,  our  hateful,  base  command, 

That  Chinamen  must  not  come  nigh  ? 

'Tis  true  we've  pledged,  our  crust  to  share, 
With  who-so,  ship  from  far-land  brings ; 

'Tis  true  there  room  is,  everywhere, 

Where  sweet  contentment  sits  and  sings. 

But  Chinaman,  though  he,  quietly 

Comes  here,  to  live,  and  earn  his  bread, 

Must  never  dare  here-at  to  stay, 

Else  goes  his  queue,  perhaps, — his  head. 


52          JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

An  alien  he,  to  be  cast  out, 

To  have  no  portion  in  this  land; 

His  Queue-Clan  we  must  quickly  rout, 
We  must  not  give  him  friendly  hand. 

He  works  too  cheaply,  eats  his  "  rice," 
He  tvashee  Melican  man's  shirts ; 

And  though  he  does  them  extra  nice, 
And  equal  to  the  best  experts, 

He  must  not  stay,  he  can't  abide 
Within  our  Domain,  though  it  be 

A  place  where  one  may  safely  hide 
From  poverty,  beneath  our  Tree. 

He,  "  Heathen  Chinee,"  at  our  door 
Stands,  asking  us  to  give  him  light;* 

Seeking  to  learn,  that  he  the  more 
May  know,  and  do  more  fully,  right. 

We  send  our  Missionaries  there, 

To  China,  costing  thousands,  so 
The  Chinamen,  with  closest  care 

The  Christ,  may,  through  the  gospel,  know. 


JOHN,   NO    HEREE    COME.  53 

But  when  they  come  to  us,  straightway 
We  say,  "  No,  John,  no  heree  come ; 

You  must  not  learnee  here  to  pray ; 
Go  home,  and  pray  to  idols  dumb." 

x. 

Oh,  is  this  where  our  fathers  died  ? 

Is  this  the  land  of  Washington  ? 
Is  this  our  Pilgrim  Fathers'  pride  ? 

This  land,  where  such  base  thing  is  done  ? 

Yes,  shame  to  own  it,  loath  are  we, 
But  'tis  the  land,  the  very  same  ; 

Alas  !  perhaps  it  yet  may  be, 

That  'tis  the  land  in  but  its  name. 

'Tis  not  for  foreign  paupers,  no ; 

Nor  for  the  banished  criminals; 
Those  Countries  to  their  poor  ones  owe" 

Support,  and  to  their  felons  cells. 

For  every  vicious  criminal 

Who  here  is  found,  a  banished  fiend, 
Turns  happiest  place  to  misriest  hell, 

And  he  cannot  be,  here,  convened. 


54          JOHN   GREEN  LEAF    WH1TTIER. 

Our  Freedom,  never,  senseless,  means 

License,  nor  lazy  indolence  ; 
Nor,  that  the  man  who,  sleeping,  dreams 

Of  luck,  shall  e'er  get  rich,  by  chance. 

It  never  means  that  one  is  great 
Because  he  has  his  pile  of  dust; 

Nor  a  long-genealogued  estate ; 

Nor  coat-of-arm,  o'er-spread  with  rust. 

It  means  not,  that  a  place,  has,  here 
The  Anarchist,  who  is  the  foe 

Of  Governments,  to  fill  with  fear 

Those,  who  their  lawlessness  well  know. 

But  'tis  the  k^al  man  who  may 

Come  here  to  live,  to  work,  to  vote ; 

To  be  a  true  man  every  way ; 

Whether  unknown,  or,  one  of  note. 

All  honest  men,  whate'er  their  creed, 
Who  come  respecting  our  good  flag, 

Who  of  our  comforts  stand  in  need, 
Who  will  not  hoist  a  rebel  rag, 


ALL  HONEST  MEN  AT  HOME  HERE.  55 

They  may  come  here,  to  till  the  soil, 
For  brain-work,  or,  with  willing  hands, 

In  shops,  or  elsewhere,  by  their  toil 
To  help  our  best-of-all-earth  Viands. 

No  matter  from  what  land  they  come ; 

No  matter  what  their  tongue  may  be ; 
No  matter  what  the  rounded  sum 

Of  their  vast  multitudes,  we  see. 

They  have  a  right  here,  if  they  will 
Keep  our  just  laws,  with  loyal  heart ; 

Each  one  his  place,  best  fit,  to  fill ; 
To  do  his  honest,  manly  part. 

To  make  our  land  a  place  of  thrift, 

Of  busy  industry  and  life  ; 
To  keep  a-back  the  floating  drift 

Of  evil,  gendering  bloody  strife. 

And  in  his  right,  must  each  have  guard, 
To  be  a  man  —  with  life,  and  right 

To  fix  his  price  for  his  reward 
Of  labor,  whether  day  or  night. 


56          JOHN   GREEN  LEAF    WIUTTIER. 

And  all  because  our  government, 
Firmly  on  its  foundations,  stands, 

And  shows  that  'tis  its  wise  intent 
To  well-enforce  its  law's  demands. 

The  rights  of  all  to  fully  shield, 
The  while  unforfeit  they  shall  be ; 

And  its  strong  power,  to,  wisely,  wield 
'Gainst  Oligarch  and  anarchy. 

So  all  men  equal-born,  may  find 
They,  equal  are,  before  the  law, 

And  that  the  government  is  kind, 
Though  vested  with  the  proper  awe, 

And  swiftly  seizes  those  who  dare 
The  law's  behests  to  disobey, 

Forgetful  that  the  lawless  bear 
Its  equal,  penal-curse,  alway. 

It  can  no  combined  force  protect, 
No  Clan-na-Gael  —  in  our  land  ; 

And  all  who  are  by  us  "  suspect," 
Must,  at  our  court's-tribimal,  stand. 


NO  DRUNKARD-MAKERS  ALLOWED.     57 

And  every  law  must  so  be  made 
That  right  shall,  vested,  in  it  be, 

And  none  by  fraud  be  e'er  betrayed, 

And  none  who  should  be  bound,  go  free, 

And  none  allowed,  though  he  might  pay 

High  License  for  especial  right, 
To  hurt  his  neighbor  any  way, 

In  purse  or  manhood,  day  or  night, 

Nor  drunkard-makers  be  allowed 
To  drunkards  make  at  any  price, 

No  more  than  he,  who  in  a  crowd 
Picks  pockets,  by  his  cool  device. 

Then,  can  the  laborer  to  his  toil 
Off,  whistling,  go,  and  he  of  means 

Live  happily  —  all  by  fruitful  soil 
Be  well-fed,  by  what  he  well,  deems, 

His  best  pursuit,  —  his  highest  aim, 

To  feel  that  he  is,  all,  a  man, 
And  every  other,  is  the  same, 

Who  does  the  best  a  mortal  can. 


58          JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

The  government  can  then  control 
All  our  great  interests,  and  no  more 

Shall  corporations,  without  soul, 
Grind  down  the  faces  of  the  poor, 

And  one  may,  any  one  employ, 

Whom  he  shall  choose,  at  proper  wage, 

And  one  may,  his  high  right  enjoy, 
To  work,  wherever  he  engage. 

And  labor  be  the  capital, 

And  money,  only  represent 
Its  value,  which  we  know  full-well, 

Is  but,  as  'tis  in  commerce  meant. 

For,  'tis  a  dead  and  useless  thing, 
Unless  put  into  workers'  hands, 

Where  its  true  value,  it  will  bring, 
And  he  works  best  who  understands 

That  all  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 
Is  vested  in  the  laboring  class, 

And  our  star-banner  is  unfurled, 
Dipped  to  their  honor,  as  they  pass, 


LABOR   HONORABLE.  6D 

Begrimed  with  toil,  they  honored,  are, 
A-sweat  and  weary,  bent  and  worn, . 

They  have  of  all,  the  holiest  share, 
Of  right  —  nor  shall  it  e'er  be  torn 

From  them,  nor  shall  the  laborer  be, 
In  working  clothes,  e'er  set  aside, 

By  nabobs,  who  the  toiling  see, 

While  in  their  carriage,  they  may  ride. 

But  they,  the  wage-workers,  are  not 
To  think  they  have  the  right  to  say 

That  'tis  their  right,  and  only  lot, 
To  dictate,  fully  all  their  pay, 

They  may  o'er-charge,  they  surely  may 
Be  under-paid,  and,  'tis  of  force, 

That  caution's  needed,  every  way, 

That  what  is  right  they'll  have,  of  course. 

And  all  must  "  live  and  let  live,"  too, 

And  neither  be,  at  all  unjust, 
But  keep  this  motto  still  in  view, 

IF   ONE   GOES   DOWN,   THE   OTHER   MUST, 


60         JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

And  'tis  by  mutual  charity, 

And  mutual  interest,  all  can  live, 

Arid  there  is  no  disparity, 

That  each  must,  to  the  other,  give. 

Employer  and  employee,  both, 

Are  bound  to  see,  the  righteous  thing 

Is,  done,  and  neither  be  so  loth, 
As  to  refuse  his  skill  to  bring, 

To  make  all  fair  and  equal,  so 
Neither  does  over-reach,  nor  fail 

This  right  and  privilege,  well  to  show, 
And,  in  his  right  to,  well-prevail. 

And  why  not?     Should  there  be  the  test 
Of  money,  lands,  or,  palace  grand, 

As  reason  Avhy  that  man  is  best, 
Who  has  these  ready  at  command  ? 

No  ;  character  and  honest  toil,  — 

Brain,  Brawn,  are  what  are  most  of  worth, 

And  who  has  these,  has  power  to  foil, 
All  charges  of  inferior  birth. 


COTTAGE  AND   PALACE.  6l 

The  humble  home  — where  comfort  dwells, 
And  peace  sits  smiling  all  the  day, 

Where  sweet  contentment  always  tells, 
How  pleasant,  'tis  there  thus  to  stay, 

Where  wife  prepares  the  table  —  where 
The  children,  kempt  and  well-behaved, 

Where  all  the  family  has  share 

In  the  spread  board  —  with  blessing  craved  : 

Where  God  is  honored  —  and  the  Book 
Is  read,  and  daily  prayer  is  heard ; 

That  is  the  place  where  one  may  look  ; 
'Tis  like  the  nest  of  singing  bird. 

And  'tis  a  palace,  just  as  grand, 

As  marble,  brownstone,  granite,  glass  ; 

As  good  as  any  in  the  land ; 

Fit,  note  of  angels,  as  they  pass. 

If  there,  economy  is  used, 

And  habits,  bad,  are  all  eschewed, 

And  manhood,  never  is  abused, 

And  every  thing,  and  act,  reviewed, 


JOHN    GliEEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

So  that  the  best,  may  first  be  done, 

And  what  must  be,  with  hope,  is  borne, 

Though  burdening,  till  life's  race  is  run, 
And  Heaven's  Eternal  Crown  is  worn, 

Then,  'tis  enough,  and  he  is  wise, 
Who  loves  that  sweet  and  holy  spot ; 

Who  sees  it,  till  it  fills  his  eyes, 
And,  for  a  better,  careth  not. 

Economy,  to  him,  is  wealth  ; 

'Tis  better  than  a  mine  of  gold ; 
'Tis  better  than  the  funds  of  stealth ; 

Its  value  is  not  ready  told. 

And  skill  to  work,  is  tariff  high ; 

Protection,  is  for  faithful  toil, 
And  he  forbids  dread  want  come  nigh, 

Who  burns  economic,  his  oil. 

If  men  are  frugal,  they  can  live 

On  less  than  spendthrifts  can  afford, 

And  then,  to  charity,  can  give 

A  mite,  and  keep  a  well-filled  board. 


GOOD  SENSE  AND  KNOWLEDGE.        63 

The  most  men  lack  is  common  sense, 
The  knowledge  of  the  common  laws, 

To  save  some  foolish,  vain  expense, 

And  know  when  they  for  courts,  have  cause. 

We  need  an  old  JOHN  ADAMS,  now; 

A  Socrates,  or  Plato,  who 
Can  teach  the  people,  daily,  how 

They  best,  and  wisest  work,  may  do. 

Some  Seneca,  to  teach  the  truth, 
Some  Spartan  law  to  train  our  boys, 

Some  more  and  better  things  for  youth, 
Than  what,  is  muscular  and  noise. 

Far  better,  sense  and  knowledge  is, 
Than  skill  in  games,  and  athlete  limbs, 

Than  bruising,  each,  the  other's  phiz  ; 
And,  thus,  to  suit  ambition's  whims. 

Laying  these  paltry  things,  aside,  — 

The  use  of  tricks,  and  frauds,  and  rings, 

Not  on  ambition's  nag  to  ride, 

Which  oft,  his  rider,  earthward  flings, 


04          JOHN    G REE X LEAF    WHITTIER. 

We  must  the  thoughts  of  people  mould, 
That,  with  full-care,  —  the  ship  of  state, 

May  well  be  manned,  and  her  course  hold, 
And  keep  off  from  the  rocks  of  fate. 

That,  as  the  waves  dash  furiously, 

Which  threaten  her  with  instant  doom, 

She  may  ride  safely  through  the  sea, 

Though  clouds  may  gather,  with  thick  gloom. 

The  times  are  full  of  danger-signs, 
There's  not  enough  of  sober  thought, 

Too  much,  the  younger  blood  inclines, 
To  be,  in  wayward  channels,  caught. 

Sport,  play,  the  base-ball,  and  the  dance, 
The  horse-race,  yacht-race,  club,  and  fair, 

The  ticket,  with  the  lot  and  chance, 
Are  things,  alas,  not  few  nor  rare. 

'Twas  thus,  when  Babylon  went  down ; 

Thus,  when  Rome  fell  from  her  high  place  ; 
Thus,  with  Pompeii's  fated  town ; 

Thus  may  it  be  in  our  own  case. 


ALL  EQUAL  BEFORE   THE  LAW.         65 

We  must,  our  fathers'  principles 

Make  ours,  and  keep  them,  ever  pure, 

In  State,  and  in  Municipals ; 

Else  we  cannot,  through  time,  endure. 

The  Bible  foremost,  sure,  must  be ; 

Our  country,  Christian,  first  was  named, 
And  sad,  will  be,  the  day  we  see, 

When  "  'tis  not  Christian,"  shall  be  claimed. 

Our  schools  must  be  forever  free, 

No  parochial,  or  sect-schools,  can, 
Into  our  school's  place  come,  and  we 

Must  stand  up  to  this,  to  a  man. 

All  men  before  the  law,  must,  still 

Be  equal,  as  at  first,  and  right 
Must  still  prevail,  with  strong  good-will, 

Nor  be  out-flanked,  by  wrong  and  might. 

This  is  thy  teaching,  John,  I  know, 

Thy  kindly  heart  did  ever  feel 
For  manhood,  in  its  weal  or  woe ; 

The  down-crushed,  'neath  the  tyrant's  heel, 


<>»>          JOHN  GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

For  common  weal  is  commonwealth, 
We  cherish  Commonwealth,  our  own, 

And  for  our  good  and  perfect  health, 
We  must  protect  it,  zone  to  zone. 

Well,  here  thou  art  worn  in  thy  years, 
And  seeking  rest,  and  quietude ; 

Not  wanting  that  which  interferes, 
And  does  into  thy  thought,  intrude, 

Yet,  whilst  thou  sittest  down,  serene, 
And  layest  pen  and  themes  aside, 

And  shadows,  falling,  intervene, 

And  heaven's  doors  seem  opening  wide, 

To  let  thee  see  the  home  beyond, 
Where  shines  the  bright  eternal  day, 

Of  which  thy  heart  is  cheerly  fond, 
For  which  thou  dost  devoutly  pray, 

Perchance  I  may,  mean  time,  relate 
Something  of  this,  less  life,  of  mine, 

And,  in  my  measure,  simply  state, 
What  it  may  have  to  do  with  thine. 


THE   BIRTHDAY  BOWER.  67 

The  birthdays  intervined,  entwine 
Together,  running,  thus,  along, 

Like  twisted  clinging,  eglantine, 
Making  an  arbor,  green  and  strong, 

And  flowering,  as  the  fragrant  rose, 
Delighting  every  well-taught  sense, 

Which,  thus,  its  pleasure-power  shows, 
To  hold  the  while,  in  pleased  suspense. 

So,  whilst  thou  sittest  here,  awhile, 

I  will  a  moment,  briefly  stay, 
And  watch  thy  face,  thy  kindly  smile, 

As  of  myself  a  word  I  say. 

My  life  has  been  eventful,  still 
It  has  not  been  my  lot  to  stand 

Where,  I,  the  highest  place  could  fill, 
Among  the  nobles  of  the  land. 

No  crown  of  laurels  decks  my  brow ; 

I  sit,  not  yet,  where  praises  greet 
My  ear,  I'm  only  doing,  now, 

Whate'er  I  can,  with  weary  feet. 


68          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITT1ER. 

I  fold  not  yet,  across  my  breast, 

My  hands,  to  bid  the  world  "good-night" 
I  am  not  read}',  yet  to  rest; 

I  still  would  battle  for  the  right, 

But  health  is  under-weather,  some, 
And  pains  are  keeping  me  in  mind, — 

As  slyly  they  do  go  and  come, 
And  treat  me  in  a  way  unkind, 

That  I  am  mortal,  and  my  feet, 

Shall  one  day  stop  their  weary  walk, 

At  Way-side  Inn,  and,  I  shall  meet, 

The  crowd,  that,  long,  have  ceased  to  talk ; 

The  silent  crowd,  laid  down  to  sleep, 

Where  the  white  stones  their  berths  disclose, 

Where  Angel-porters,  guard-watch  keep, 
Where  none  the  others'  presence,  knows. 

But  now  I'm  living,  and  I  know, 

As  know  all  living,  I  must  die, 
And  that,  while  living,  much  I  owe, 

To  God,  and  man,  and,  I  will  try 


DOING    WHAT  I   CAN.  69 

To  do  my  part,  that  I  may  be 

Of  some  use,  while  I  here  remain, 

For,  if  I  fail,  I  do  not  see, 

How,  ever,  I'll  come  back  again 

To  mend  a  path's  bad  crookedness, 
Or  place  the  steps,  if  turned  aside, 

Aright,  nor,  any  soul  to  bless, 

Where  I  did,  foretime,  but  deride. 

I  know,  but  weakly,  I  can  do, 

Whatever  work  my  hands  may  find, 

But  I  would  be,  to  right  most  true, 
And,  to  my  fellow-men,  most  kind. 

So,  with  my  might,  whate'er  my  hands 
Find  to  do,  I'll,  the  best  I  can, 

Do,  thus  to  strengthen  friendship's  bands, 
And  bless  my  needy  fellow-man. 

"  For  there's  no  knowledge  in  the  grave, 
Work  or  device,"  where  all-we,  go, 

Not  there,  can  one,  his  neighbor  save, 
"  For  all  the  dead,  do,  nothing  know." 


70          JOHN   GEEENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

I'm  but  a  Gospel  minister,  sir, 

For  many  years  I've  tried  to  preach, 

And  I  have  sought,  as  I  aver, 

In  Christ's  dear  name  men's  hearts  to  reach, 

To  bid  the  lost,  whom  Christ  has  found, 

To  look  to  Him,  the  Crucified, 
Who,  with  the  thorns  was  rudely  crowned, 

As,  on  Mount  Calvary,  He  died. 

To  bid  the  prodigal  return, 

Rag-clothed,  to  find  a  welcome  home, 
That,  that  fond  heart,  which  now  doth  yearn, 

Shall  know  he  doth  no  longer  roam. 

To  tell  the  wandering  boys,  who  stray, 
From  the  old  roof-tree  of  their  birth, 

How  mother,  still,  at  home,  doth  pray, 
And  wait,  at  that  dear  spot  of  earth. 

To  see  them  come,  with  hands  still  clean, 
And  souls  as  pure  as  childhood's,  so, 

They,  free  from  deed*  depraved  and  mean, 
Still  may,  that  mother's  welcome,  know. 


THUS    SAITH   THE   LORD.  tl 

To  help  believers  keep  the  faith  ; 

To  show  how  reason  cloth  bestow, 
Light,  on  whate'er  the  Almighty  saith, 

And  thus  how  faith  may  reason,  know. 

To  tell  the  world  of  future  things, 
Which  inspiration  hath  revealed, 

Of  what  the  Christ,  at  coming,  brings, 
Which  has  for  ages  been  concealed. 

How  prophecy,  has  shed  its  light, 

A-down  the  ages,  till  we  see, 
A  radiance  shining,  clear  and  bright, 

Upon  the  page  of  history. 

That,  as  the  tenon  deftly  fits 

The  mortise,  so,  the  Prophecy, 
Just  the  Historic  statement  hits, 

That  one  may  well  the  fitness  see. 

And  say,  "  this  is  that  spoken  "  by  the  Lord, 
Who  by  his  servant  Faithful,  spoke, 

And  thus  has  kept  his  truthful  word, 
That  never,  once,  its  truth-line  broke. 


72          JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

So  I  have  said,  "  behold  the  time, 
Is  fast  approaching,  and  the  day, 

When,  coming  in  his  might,  sublime, 

The  Christ  shall  hold,  on  earth,  his  sway." 

But,  while  I've  wrought,  my  life  has  sped, 
For  fifty-five,  full-rounded  years, 

And  friends  are  numbered  with  the  dead, 
And  I  have  swung  'twixt  smiles  and  tears, 

Like  pendulum ;  most  poisely  hung ; 

First  one,  then  other ;  then  the  one ; 
And  thus,  has  sped,  as  songs  are  sung, 

This  life,  and  soon  it  may  be  done. 

How  swiftly  speed  these  years ;  'tis  short 
The  time,  since  I  was  but  a  boy, 

And  all  seems  but  a  thing  of  naught, 
Since  first  I  played  in  careless  joy. 

So,  like  "  a  weaver's  shuttle  "  swift ; 

Or,  like  "  a  tale  that's  briefly  told," 
Or,  like  the  autumn  leavers  that  drift, 

When  winds  are  blowing,  bleak  and  cold. 


YOUTH-POVERTY  NO  DAMAGE.         1 

I  think-me  now,  of  youthful  days, 

Which  I  spent  in  my  poverty, 
And  since  have  held  my  own ;  my  lays, 

Are  sung  midst  what  I  hope  to  see. 

But  I  am  most  content ;  I  know, 
No  Potentate  of  earth  is  throned 

So  high  as  he,  who,  thus,  can  show, 
He  is,  of  God,  in  such  case,  owned. 

And  I  am  rich  in  this  estate, 

Though  poor  enough  in  coffered  wealth ; 
My  Father-God  is  rich  and  great, 

And  what  care  I  for  worldly  pelf? 

The  heir  of  millions  cannot  show, 

Though  he  has  wealth  in  boundless  store, 

Such  riches,  in  their  overflow ; 

Such  having,  one  can  ask  no  more. 

So,  spending  youth  in  poverty, 

Is  not  a  damage  to  a  boy, 
For  better  poor  than  rich,  is  he, 

For  then,  he  must,  his  powers  employ. 


[         JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WH1TTIER. 

On,  up  to  school,  with  ready  feet, 

I  went,  old  Oraneneck  marked  the  way, 

And  took  my  knife-hacked,  paintless  seat, 
Intent  on  study,  more  than  play. 

Outside,  I  had  the  hardest  time, 

The  boys  made  me  their  special  jest, 

And,  in  positions  not  sublime, 
I  oft  was  placed,  beneath  the  rest. 

"  A  pile,  a  pile  ! "  was  oft  the  shout, 
The  signal  for  the  rush,  pell-mell, 

When  every  boy,  where'er  about, 

Helped,  up,  a  "  pile,"  grotesque,  to  swell. 

"  A  pile  "  it  was,  of  arms  and  legs, 

Looking  like  some  grim  monster,  huge, 

Made  of  waste  pieces,  prongs  and  pegs, 
Before  the  days  of  the  deluge. 

They  screamed  and  shouted,  while  I  lay, 
Down,  under  all,  in  sorry  plight, 

Breathless  and  panting ;  I  did  pray 
That  I  might  be  relieved  out-right. 


IN  SCHOOL-ROOM  A-TOP.  75 

I  cried,  "  Oh !  boys,  do  let  me  out ! 

I'm  almost  dead,  I  cannot  breathe  !  " 
But  they  cared  not,  they  were  about 

Their  play,  nor  would  me,  then  relieve. 

I  was  but  small  —  I  could  not  do 
The  fighting,  to  keep  up  my  end, 

So,  it,  my  physique  oft  did  rue, 
Almost  without  a  helping  friend. 

But,  in  the  school-room,  I  could  keep 
My  place  a-top,  and  hold  my  own ; 

They  could  not  "  pile  "  on  me  their  heap ; 
My  bench  was  to  me  as  a  throne. 

And  yet,  oft-times,  on  me  was  laid 
The  blame  of  what  the  others  did, 

And  I,  their  scape-goat,  thus,  was  made, 
And,  for  them,  I  was  often,  chid. 

So  they  colluded  and  conspired, 
To  get  each  other  rid  of  blame, 

And  get  for  me  what  they  desired  ; 
Not  feeling  for  it  proper  shame. 


)          JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

A  story  I  will  here  relate, 

How,  once,  such  deed  was  almost  done, 
But  not  quite  —  I  was  saved  the  fate, 

Which  sometimes  came  of  their  sweet  fun. 

One  day  a  boy  I  will  not  name, 
For,  living  yet,  he  may  not  care 

To  have  it  told.  —  -  'Tis  just  the  same, 
As  I,  the  truth,  most  sure,  declare  ; 

One  day  he,  Yankee,  with  his  knife 

The  benches  whittled,  —  (nothing  new ; 

There  seemed  among  the  boys  a  strife 

To  see  which,  most,  such  work  would  do ; 

For  those  pine  benches,  without  paint, 
Were  made  the  test  of  all  the  knives, 

And  many  a  cut  and  carving,  quaint, 

Was  made,  though  nothing  now  survives  ; 

For  that  old  house  has  gone,  and  all 
The  deeds  done  to  it,  have  gone,  too, 

And  only  can  our  thought  recall 
Its  form ;  we  had  another,  new.) 


CAUGHT  BET\VI-:EX  TWO.  77 

This  boy  used  his  own  knife  until 
The  teacher  took  it ;  then  he  sought 

Another,  trying  whittling  still, 

And  was,  in  this  deed,  likewise,  caught. 

He  borrowed  knives,  until  the  desk 
(High  in  the  corner)  showed  a  pile, 

He,  running  quite  a  little  risk, 
Of  something-else  —  after  a  while. 

That  teacher  had  an  easy  way ; 

He  would  not  whip  —  until  he  must; 
And,  thus  he  failed,  most  every  day, 

To  deal  a  penalty,  most  just. 

So  this  bad  boy,  still  whittled  on, 

And  borrowed  knives  from  all  around, 

Until,  most  all  the  knives  had  gone, 
Where  others,  their  duress,  had  found. 

/sat  behind  him.     Turning  back 

He  whispered,  "  Ask  George  for  his  knife  "  ; 
That  moment  I,  some  sense  did  lack, 

(It  has  been  so,  sometimes,  in  life.) 


78          JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIEH. 

So  I  asked  George,  behind  me,  "  Lend 

Your  knife  to  him  ;  "  at  once  George  spoke, 

Telling  the  teacher.     He  no  friend 

Was,  to  the  boys  who,  school-rules,  broke. 

I  was  exposed,  and,  then,  I  said, 

As  honest  as  I  well  could  be, 
And,  as  best,  then,  my  school-boy  head 

The  true  way  out,  could  safely  see ; 

I  said,  "  He  asked  me  to."     "  A  lie, 

I  didn't,"  cried  he,  who,  before, 
Had  asked  the  knife,  —  so,  did  deny  ; 

And  what  could  I  say  then?     No  more. 

So  I  was  sandwiched  in  between 
That  boy  and  he  who  sat  behind ; 

I  thought,  it  might  be  plainly  seen. 
That  he  had  "  lied,"  by  one  not  blind. 

The  teacher  knew  what  had  been  done, 
How,  knives,  he'd  taken,  half  a  score, 

And,  that,  perchance,  another  one 
Might,  yet,  be  added  to  his  store. 


LOGIC    IS    LOGIC.  79 

Logic  is  logic,  and  as  plain 

As,  "  two  and  two  are  four,"  the  truth 
Was  evident,  that,  once,  again, 

A  knife  was  wanted  by  that  youth. 

In  any  court,  good  evidence 

Would  be,  the  knives  the  teacher  had  ; 
And  any  teacher,  with  right  sense, 

Could  make  a  case  against  that  lad. 

But,  sometimes  policy  gets  place  ; 

Justice  is  pushed  at  once,  aside  ; 
We  see  that  Policy  will  trace, 

And  know  the  evil,  far  and  wide. 

That  teacher  was  a  good  man,  though ; 

He  prayed  in  school,  day  after  day ; 
He  would  not  do  a  wrong,  to  know 

That  he  had  failed,  in  any  way, 

But  he  was  like  some  other  men, 
Who  are  afraid  to  speak  right  out, 

And  keep  themselves,  reticent,  when, 
Their  interests,  they  must,  nowise,  flout. 


80          JOHN   ORE  EX  LEAF    WHITTIER. 

He  was  like  Pilate  ;  Herod  ;  men, 

Who,  though  the  right  they  well  could  see, 

Were  ready  to  be  weak-kneed,  when 
Somebody  would  more  pleased  be. 

Such,  like,  so  well,  "to  please  the  Jews." 

And  keep  themselves  good  friends  with  those 

Whose  friendship  they  may  wish  to  use, 
Whose  will  they  do  not  dare  oppose. 

So,  justice  fails,  through  cowards ;  men, 
Who  should  be  firm,  are  limp  and  weak, 

And  when  they  should  be  firmest,  then 
They  with  a  faltering  softness,  speak. 

That  teacher,  somewhat  like  this  was  ; 

He  spoke  out,  in  a  kind,  mild  way, 
Most  non-committal,  with  a  pause, 

And  did,  with  show  of  fairness,  say  •  — 

"  Well,  boys,  'tis  difficult  to  tell 

Just  where  the  truth,  in  this  case,  lies  — 

Somewhere  between  you  is  its  spell, 
And,  who  knows  where  it  is,  is  wise. 


"NOT   PROVEN."  81 

"  /  cannot  tell,  perhaps  one  wise 

As  Solomon,  could  find  it.     I 
Cannot,  with  all  my  powers,  devise 

A  way  to  do  it,  and  won't  try." 

He  named  me ;  said  the  truth  I'd  told, 
Once,  when  against  myself  it  bore  ; 

Then  left  the  case  ;  —  I  was  consoled, 

Although,  he  might  have  helped  me  more. 

("  Not  proven  "   -  is  a  verdict,  made 
By  Scotland's  jury,  when  they  find 

That  evidence  is  not  arrayed, 

So,  "  GUILTY,"  they,  the  accused,  can  bind. 

It  lets  him  go,  and,  yet,  the  dark 

Suspicion  rests  upon  the  man ; 
And,  everywhere,  men,  willing,  hark 

To  hear  against  him,  what  they  can.) 

So  I  was  with  suspicion  held, 

Though  I  had  "  sometimes  "  told  the  truth, 
And  I  was,  by  the  means,  compelled, 

The  lie,  to  share  with  that  frail  youth, 


82          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

But  'tis  far  better  to  be  thought 
A  liar,  when  the  truth  is  told, 

Than,  in  a  lie  to  be  close-caught, 

And  manhood,  thus  be,  cheaply,  sold. 

For,  conscious  of  integrity, 

One  can,  suspicioned,  lift  his  head ; 

But,  he  who  KNOWS  he  lies,  must  be 
A  cringing  coward-knave,  instead  : 

Unless,  as,  mostly,  liars  are 

Lost  to  all  shame,  and,  careless,  quite ; 
Their  brazen  faces  show  no  care, 

For  they  are  rather  wrong  than  right. 

I'd  told  the  truth,  that,  well,  I  knew, 
And,  that  the  other  boy,  did  lie, 

But,  still  it  lay  between  us  two, 
And  it  might  be  that  boy,  or  .  .  I. 

So,  time  went  on,  and  I  ofttimes, 
Did  feel  the  blow  upon  my  back, 

For  others,  who,  to  hide  their  crimes, 
Caused  me  to  get  the  birch-rod  whack. 


MOTH E PCS    SYMPATHY.  83 

When,  of  themselves,  they  should  have  told, 
And,  so,  have  told  the  better  truth ; 

But,  rarely  were  the  boys  so  bold ; 
They  rather  tell  of  me,  forsooth,, 

But,  still  I  studied,  and  I  learned 
My  Wessons,  by  some  hook  or  crook, 

For  oh  !  my  soul  with  high  hope,  yearned, 
To  know  the  contents  of  my  book. 

But  I,  at  home,  had  sympathy ; 

My  mother  was  my  dearest  friend, 
And,  always  she  encouraged  me, 

And  did,  her  hopeful  spirit  lend, 

To  help  me  on  my  hapless  way, 

Though,  oft,  I  almost  wished  me  dead ; 

But  she,  some  cheering  word  would  say, 
While  pillowing  on  her  breast,  my  head, 

"  Go,  study,  do  not  mind  the  boys ; 

Who  studies  will  not  be  a  fool ; 
Play  makes  them  dull  and  mere  toys  ; 

Go,  my  dear  boy,  still  go  to  school." 


84          JOHN   GREEN  LEAF    WHITTIER. 

So  cheered  she  me,  day  after  day, 
And  I  kept  on,  and  spelled  and  read, 

And  all  my  lessons  learned  to  say, 
Whether  in  class,  at  foot  or  head. 

But  head  of  class  is  where  the  best 
And  brightest  of  the  scholars,  stands, 

No  matter  where  may  stand  the  rest ; 
The  best,  the  headship  well  commands. 

And  'twas  not  always  at  the  head, 
The  teachers  left,  the  best  could  be ; 

The  column,  sometimes,  there  was  led, 
By  some  one's  sons,  not  me,  d'ye  see. 

But  though  the  favored  ones  did  stand 
Above  me,  by  some  scheme,  there-placed, 

Yet,  oft,  I  could  the  place  demand 
And  constantly  I,  it,  menaced. 

Sometimes  I  got  it,  for  a  while, 

And,  sometimes,  lost  it,  by  mishap ; 

Either  of  right,  or  trap  of  guile, 
I  yielded  to  some  other  chap. 


A    CONFLICT.  85 

Once,  I  was  nearly  at  the  foot, 
One,  only  stood  below  me,  when 

A  word  (it  might  have  been,  SURTOUT,) 
Was  missed,  I  spelled  it  right,  and,  then,  — 

The  teacher  gave  it  to  the  next, 
Who  spelled  it  right,  just  as  I  had, 

Then  up  he  went,  — I  was  sore  vexed, 
And  went  and  stood  above  that  lad. 

I  was  quite  hasty,  —  I  was  not 
A  perfect  boy,  —  and  l^vas  sure, 

The  place  was  mine  ;  alas  !    I  got 
Something,  my  imprudence  to  cure, 

A  conflict  with  the  teacher  ?  Yes, 
I  should  have,  rather,  kept  my  place, 

(As  if,  the  word,  I  then  did  miss,) 
And  suffer  it  —  if  in  disgrace. 

I  had  my  knuckles  rapped  by  him 

Who  laid  me  in  the  lie  before, 
The  teacher  bade  him  —  rather  slim 

Was  the  pretext  —  a  bad  work's  score. 


86          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

No  boy  in  school  should  e'er  rebel, 
Although  he  may  not  get  his  rights ; 

It  never  does  of  honor  tell, 

When  one  his  teacher,  daring,  fights, 

But  I  felt  well  my  right,  and  knew 
I  suffered  wrongfully,  and  claimed 

The  head,  and,  so,  I  sought  to  do, 
What,  as  an  act,  was  to  be  blamed. 

Once,  when  a  little  fellow,  I 
Sat  in  my  seafP&  class  was  out 

Spelling,  and  every  one  did  try 

To  spell  Squash,  but  each,  lagging  lout 

Failed,  I  put  my  hand  up,  and  caught 
^The  teacher's  eye,  I  spelled  the  word ; 

Just  as  those  bigger  scholars  ought ; 
And  somewhat,  then,  their  ire  stirred. 

I  was  a  child  —  it  pleased  me  then, 
That  I  could  spell  a  class-missed  word, 

How  much  I  was  like  most  of  men, 
Of  such,  as  you,  sir,  oft  have  heard, 


THE   LOVE    OF    VICTORY.  87 

Who,  pleased  are,  with  victory, 

And  love  to  know  they've  beaten  those 

Who  failed  of  what  they  sought  to  be,  — 
Then,  blatantly,  their  joy  expose. 

Not  much  like  that  fair  girl,  who  said, 
"  I'm  sorry  that  the  word  I  spelled," 

And  thus  her  boy-friend  comforted  ; 
And  thus,  his  rising  feeling  quelled. 

"I  love  you,"  was  the  reason  why, 

And  love  will  conquer  vanity ; 
For  it,  a  friend  will,  for  you,  die  ; 

He,  conqueror,  cannot,  conquered  be. 

But,  yet,  there  is  in  every  heart 
The  love  of  victory,  and  the  soul 

Will  from  life,  even,  gladly  part, 
That  it  may  reach  the  victor's  goal. 

It  is  not  wrong,  if  never  gained, 

Through  cause  of  other's  purposed  fall ; 

If  none  are  by  it,  wilfully  pained, 
Then  one  may  go  before  them  all. 


88          JOHN   GREESLEAF    WIUTTIER. 


I  never  sought  a  place  to  gain, 
By  crowding  other  men  aside  ; 

I  would  not  cause  another  pain  ; 
I'd  sooner  walk  that  one  might 


Than  throw  him  off,  and  vault  his  steed, 
And  leave  him,  bruised  and  in  the  dust  ; 

Such  course  is  but  the  spur  of  greed, 
And  whoso  does,  is  slave  to  lust. 

The  road  is  open  for  the  boy, 
And  open  for  the  girl,  —  for  all, 

And  whoso  will,  may  know  the  joy, 
Which  comes  at  honest  Victor's  call. 

I  sought  that  road,  as  best  I  could, 

Sometimes  had  friends,  sometimes,  alone  ; 

Not  always  right,  or,  always  good, 
For  faults  I  had,  I'm  free  to  own. 

Sometimes  my  teachers  helped  me  on  ; 

My  teacher,  MARY,  was  that  sort  ; 
On  me  she  did  not  look  with  scorn, 

Although  she  whipped  me,  wrhen  she  ought. 


MY  FRIEND   HENRY.  89 

111  ripe  good  age,  she  liveth  still, 

Genial  and  pleasant,  grace-wise  bred; 

And,  late,  she  with  a  kind,  good  will, 
To  me,  "  You  had  your  lessons,"  said. 

I  had  a  friend,  too,  in  the  school, 

Henry,  a  boy  above  my  age, 
Who  kept  the  teacher's  strictest  rule, 

And,  as  my  champion  did  engage. 

He  lives  to-day,  on  the  old  place, 
Where  he  lived  then,  the  only  one, 

In  all  that  district  —  who  I  trace 

To  that  old  schoolhouse,  — all  are  gone. 

And  still  our  friendship  holds  its  sway, 
Through  all  these  years  of  toil  and  pain, 

And,  if  we  part  at  last,  some  day, 
The  hope  will  be,  to  meet  again. 

True  friendships  last,  thus,  through  the  years ; 

Through  sun  and  storm,  in  devious  way ; 
They  share  the  smiles  and  share  the  tears, 

Each  of  the  other,  day  by  day. 


90          JOHN    GREEN  LEAF    WI1ITTIER. 

Begun  in  boyhood,  how  these  keep, 
The  heart  still  fresh,  while  all  around, 

Is  bleak  and  cold,  and  many  sleep, 

Who  once  we  loved,  'neath  grassy  mound. 

Yes,  friendship  once,  when  rooted  fast, 
Is  not  a  plant  that  soon  must  die, 

It  stands  and  grows,  through  stormy  blast, 
And  does  all  jealousy,  defy. 

'Tis  death,  alone,  can  separate 

The  friends,  who,  here,  are  strongly  bound, 
And  there's  a  place  where,  mate  to  mate, 

True  friends  will  meet,  on  holiest  ground. 

"  Blest  be  the  tie,"  the  poet  sung, 

"  That  binds  our  hearts  in  purest  love ;  " 

"  Blest  be  the  tie,"  sings  every  tongue, 

That  binds  friends  —  as  they're  bound  above. 

In  school,  I  learned  things  far  ahead 

Of  classes  ;  I  could  "  conjugate," 
"  Decline,"  and,  oft,  I,  better,  read, 

Than  those  who  did  my  poor  self,  hate. 


LEARNING   AHEAD.  91 

I  spoke  my  pieces  too,  and  felt 

Thrilled  by  the  words,  whose  deep-toned  sense 
Made  my  heart,  sympathetic,  melt, 

Or  thrill  with  joy  fulness  intense. 

I  spoke  BOZZARIS,  storied  brave  ; 

I  spoke  THE  BRUSSELS  BALL  ;  THE  DEATH 
OF  ASHMUN  ;  THE  AFRICAN  SLAVE  ; 

THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF,  with  heated  breath. 

THE  NEGRO'S  sad  COMPLAINT,  I  spake, 
How  he  was  forced  from  home,  to  toil, 

Which,  every  tie  of  love  did  break ; 
It  made  my  blood,  with  ire,  boil. 

I,  thus,  first  gained  my  hatred,  deep, 

For  slavery,  and  its  cruelties, 
Which,  well  could  make  the  angels  weep, 

And,  of  the  pit  of  Satan,  is. 

COWPER  and  WHITTIER,  to  me 

Were  men  whose  souls,  into  my  own 

Poured  their  deep  feeling,  I  could  see 
Each  slave's  sad  lot,  hear  every  groan. 


92          JOHX   GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

I  heard  men  argue  for  the  rights 
Of  wrong,  —  no  rights  it  ever  had  ; 

And  who  such  wrong's  rights  proudly  cites, 
Must  sure  be  daft,  or,  else,  be  mad. 

What  are  the  rights  of  slavery  ?     I 
Asked,  and  my  soul  said,  none ; 

Not  one  thing  right,  could  I  descry, 
When  I,  the  best,  my  work  had  done. 

So  felt  I,  and  that  sense  I  prize, 
Because  it,  early,  sat  me  right ; 

It  opened  so  my  boyish  eyes, 
So,  ever,  as  its  foe,  I'd  fight. 

Thus  was  it,  when,  were  hunted  down, 
Both  Burns  and  Sims,  in  Boston,  where, 

In  that  grand,  old  Historic  town, 
Men,  'gainst  oppression  did  declare, 

And  their  great  harbor,  curtly  made, 
A  tea-pot  for  King  George  ye  Third, 

For  a  salt-tea ;  Red  Men  arrayed, 

Did,  what-of,  men,  world-wide  have  heard. 


KING  GEORGE'S  CUP  OF  TEA.      93 

And  Bunker  Hill,  and  Lexington, 
And  Concord,  all  are  witness,  how, 

The  victory,  by  the  fight  was  won, 
When  freemen  proud,  refused  to  bow. 

King  George,  might  drink  his  cup  of  tea, 
And  make  wry  faces,  if  he  pleased, 

It  meant  oppressors,  such  as  he, 

Should,  thus,  in  all  his  goods  be  seized, 

And  overboard  be  quickly  thrown, 
Because  the  sense  of  innate  right 

Could  not,  the  right  of  power  condone, 
The  rights  of  freemen  thus  to  smite. 

And,  thus,  oppression  was,  to  me, 
Whate'er  its  form,  a  hateful  thing, 

I,  ever,  'gainst  its  cause  must  be, 
I  would,  aside,  its  false  claims  fling. 

The  FUGITIVE  SLAVE  LAW,  accursed, 
Was  a  most  monstrous  thing,  and  vile  ; 

Of  all  our  laws  it  was  the  worst, 
Enacted  of  men's,  wile  and  guile. 


94          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

Men  claimed  that  the  great,  Federal  power, 
Should  not  o'er  Southern  States,  be  held  - 

But,  what  of  Northern  States,  that  hour, 
Which,  us  to  return  their  slaves,  compelled? 

When  those  black  men,  for  refuge  came. 
Burns,  Sims,  up  hither,  to  the  north, 

And  were  returned,  I  felt  the  shame, 
And,  I  confess  it,  I  was  wroth. 

With  those  poor  men  my  sympathy 

Was  placed,  as  thine,  good  friend,  and  thou 

Didst  say  right  words,  that  men  might  see, 
How  vile  the  curse  that  made  them  bow, 

Not  them,  alone,  for  all  were  held 

Subservient  to  that  evil  power, 
That  law  which  did,  its  fetters  weld 

On  all  the  north,  that  fearful  hour. 

No  wonder  we  were  filled  with  shame, 
That  such  a  law  was  ever  passed, 

And  loathed  its  very  phase,  and  name  ; 
Thank  God  it  did  no  long-while,  last, 


THE  PRAYER-CRY.  95 

But  those  poor  blacks,  were  sorely  held 

In  the  strong  fetters,  of  the  sin, 
Which  bound  the  burden,  and  compelled, 

Them,  still,  to  work  the  cotton-gin, 

And  rice  swamps,  and  the  cotton  fields 
Where  bloomed  the  bolls  like  lilies  fair 

The  fragrance  they  could  only  yield, 
Was  the  poor,  burdened  toiler's  prayer 

And  I,  though  far-off,  heard  the  cry, 
As  he,  in  anguish,  plead  with  God ; 

As  though  the  supplicant  would  die, 
Beneath  the  scourging  of  the  rod. 

One  could  not  utter  deeper  tone, 

More  full  of  bitter  agony, 
Though  dying,  on  far-isle,  alone, 

Where  only  God,  his  woe  could  see. 

I  hear  that  cry  to-day,  as  though 
It  came  afresh,  from  that  sad  soul ; 

For,  still  it  echoes,  and  I  know 
It  will,  through  endless  ages,  roll : 


96          JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

Roll,  as  a  heaven-sent  word  of  truth, 

Whence,  still,  the  guilt  and  blame  remains, 

"Which  held,  within  the  awful  ruth, 
The  slave,  in  his  hard,  galling  chains. 

The  prayer  was ;  "  Let  us,  captib's,  go ; 

We  perish  here,  beneath  dis  load, 
Dou  dost,  our  fearful  sufferin's,  know, 

Wid  dis,  our  hard  task-master's  goad. 

Oh,  break  dese  fetters,  dat  so  long 
Hab  boun'  us,  tearin'  our  poor  flesh, 

Oh !  Lord,  dou  knows  we  suffer  wrong, 
An',  how  our  tears,  each  day,  flow  fresh. 

Oh,  brung  de  year  ob  jubilo, 

An'  set  us  slabes,  foreber  free  ; 
Oh,  let  us,  from  dis  bondage  go  ; 

Oh,  hear  us,  as  we  cry  to  de. 

Dou  didst,  dy  chillen,  brung,  dry  shod, 
By  Moses'  han',  tro  de  Red  Sea, 

When,  ober  it,  he  hel'  his  rod ; 
Oh  set  us,  Lord,  in  dat  way,  free. 


THE   SLAVE'S   PRAYER.  §7 

Gib  us  a  Moses,  let  liis  han', 

Lead  us,  dry-shod  tro  de  sea-red ; 

Ob,  gib  dy  great  supreme  comman', 
And  let  us  be,  by  Moses  led. 

Our  wibes  (dey  ours  de  bes',  we  know) 
Our  chillen,  —  all  from  us  are  torn, 

An'  here  we  dem  shal'  know  no  mo', 
Dey  are,  to  some  Ian',  from  us  borne. 

Dey's  sol'  from  us,  for  Massa's  gold, 
Made  outen  our  own  brains  and  blood, 

Warm,  wlnl'  our  Massa's  hearts  are  cold, 
Like  Phar'o's,  harden'  against  God. 

Lord,  we  mus'  hab  our  liberty, 
We  mus'  be,  from  dis  Egyp'  led, 

For  here  dine  eyes  can  surely  see, 
Dat  we,  here,  just  as  good  as  dead. 

Now  let  dy  serbants  go,  we  pray, 

Keep  off  cle  blood-houn's  from  our  track, 

And  let  us  not  go  far  astray  ; 

Turn  us  not  from  de  right  way,  back. 


98          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WH1TTIER. 

De  Xorf  star  tells  us  where  cle  Ian', 
'  Flowing  wid  milk  and  honey '  be  ; 

Oh  take  us,  by  dy  friendly  haiv, 
And  brung  us  to  sweet  liberty.'* 

Thus,  as  in  vision,  I  heard  pray. 

The  slave,  it  made  my  sore  heart  ache, 

I  prayed  that  God  would  take  away, 
His  chains,  and,  free,  for  Jesu's  sake. 

So,  as  those  words,  deep-pierced  my  soul, 
I  longed  to  see  the  oppressor's  rod 

Broken,  that,  off  from  him  might  roll, 
His  burdens,  by  the  hand  of  God. 

Thank  God,  the  deed  is  done,  at  last, 
The  end  of  slavery  has  come, 

And  its  dark  days  are,  long  since,  passed, 
And  every  braying  dog  is  dumb. 

Those  fetters  are  all  broken  now, 
That  auction-block  is  now  no  more  ; 

Beneath  that  lash  slaves  do  not  bow, 
Xor  feel  their  backs  lash-cut  and  sore. 


THE  BROKEN  FETTERS.  99 

The  deed  is  done,  —  that  Red  Sea  passed, 
Red  with  the  blood  of  slain  men,  who 

Fought  for  the  Union  till  the  last, 
Till  Moses  led  the  hosts  all  through. 

'Twas  a  long  strife,  that  civil  (?)  war ; 

It  made  thee,  man  of  peace,  turn  pale, 
So  much  did  thy  kind  heart  abhor 

Its  horrors,  but  thou  didst  not  quail. 

But  I,  a  while  was  in  the  strife, 

Was  mingling  in  those  scenes  of  blood, 

Where  Rebel  minions  sought  our  life, 
And  stained,  with  blood,  the  soil  we  trod, 

They  fired  on  our  flag,  as  well 

Theirs,  (though  they  did,  another,  fly ;) 
The  old  flag  which  so  well  did  tell, 

How  once  our  fathers,  fought,  to  die. 

We  turn  back  to  the  gloomy  days, 

When,  clouds  of  darkness  o'er  us  hung, 

And  note  how,  by  the  stormy  ways, 
At  length,  our  victory,  we  sung. 


100          JOHN  GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

We  "  waited  'neath  the  furnace  blast ;  " 
The  fearful  heat,  until,  anew, 

We,  like  the  Hebrew's,  it's  flame  past, 
And  came  out,  to  our  country  true. 

That  Traitor-Leader,  Davis,  he, 
Was  Satan's  minion,  to  up-hold 

The  "  sacred  institution,"(?)  we 
In  him,  a  Judas,  once  more,  see. 

He  worshiped  at  the  black-god's  shrine, 
A  craven,  devotee  ;  his  cause, 

To  him  was  all  things,  most  divine ; 
For  that,  he  did  defy  our  laws. 

He,  recreant  to  his  Country's  flag, 
Led  on  his  proud,  rebellious  host, 

Who,  'neath  that  flouting,  rebel  rag, 

Made  most  presumptuous,  reckless  boast. 

This  boast,  their  roll  full-soon  they'd  call, 
On  Bunker  Hill,  the  roll  of  slaves, 

Where  that  strong  granite's,  shadows  fall, 
Upon  the  green-grown  patriots'  graves, 


LINCOLN'S   WHITE   NAME.  101 

But,  vain  the  boast,  for,  they  did  yield ; 

Their  cause  was  not  the  cause  of  right, 
Though,  valiantly,  they  took  the  field, 

And  did,  against  their  country  fight. 

They  claimed  state  rights,  as  the  excuse, 
For  their  rebellion,  but  they  meant, 

The  right  to  hold  their  slaves,  and  use 
Them,  without  Federal  consent. 

Though  that  consent  they  had,  at  first, 
By  compromise,  Missouri,  called, 

But,  soon  that  bad-claim-bubble  burst, 
And  all  their  hearts  were  much  appalled. 

The  chains  of  that  great  power  we  broke ; 

The  burdened  captives  were  set  free, 
For  Lincoln  held  the  pen,  whose  stroke 

Proclaimed,  the  year  of  jubilee. 

Lincoln,  that  name  how  white  and  fair 
It  shines,  undimming,  through  the  years ; 

A  name,  like  Washington's,  most  rare, 
To  be  proclaimed  through  all  the  spheres. 


102          JOHN   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

An  honest  man,  full-souled,  was  lie, 
Of  kindly  heart,  and  nerve  of  steel ; 

He  took  that  pen,  and  dared  to  be, 
Slavery's  destroyer,  Freedom's  weal. 

That  Proclamation  did  the  deed, 

Emancipation  had  its  right, 
And,  thus,  our  bondmen,  all,  were  freed ; 

Banished,  was  slavery's  gloomy  night. 

Would  he  had  lived  to  know  how  well 
He  struck  that  fatal,  deadly  blow ; 

But  we,  who  live,  forever  shall, 

His  work,  in  all  its  grandness,  know. 

Oh  !  shameful  deed,  so  full  of  hate, 

Of  Wilkes  Booth,  which  we  here  record, 

Only  to  speak  of  Lincoln's  fate ; 

And  speak  of  his  high-prized  reward. 

We  note  Booth's  deed,  but  to  condemn  ; 

Nor  he,  nor  any  other  man, 
Can,  thus,  dare  raise  a  hand,  for  then, 

They  bring  God's  curse,  upon  their  plan. 


WILKES  BOOTH'S  DEED.  103 

Sic  SEMPER  TYRANNIS,  cannot 
Prove  one  a  tyrant ;  nor  condone, 

The  act,  which  is  a  deed  whose  blot, 
Shall  rest  upon  that  soul,  alone. 

Oh  !   Lincoln,  Lincoln  ;  even  now 
Our  grief  for  him,  is  hard  to  bear, 

While,  still,  in  tearful  mood,  we  bow, 
And  weeds  of  mourning,  heart-grieved,  wear. 

Blest  be  his  memory,  and  curst 

Be  he  who  smote  him  down ; 
Wilkes  Booth  is  named  among  the  worst, 

While  Lincoln  wears  a  fadeless  crown ; 

Crown  of  a  Nation's  honor,  bright, 
And  brighter  growing,  day  by  day ; 

While  Booth's  name  dims  to  darkest  night, 
With  stigma,  on  it,  hence,  for  aye. 

Well  is  it,  we  have  had  good  men, 
Who,  needed  were,  at  such  a  time, 

To  work  for  right,  with  voice  and  pen, 
According  with  God's  work,  sublime. 


104        JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

They  die,  but  live  on  in  their  deeds, 

And  what  they  do,  with  brightest  sheen, 

Shines  on,  and  their  life-recoid  reads, 
Immortal,  their  death-lines  between. 

We  see  it,  as  the  time  rolls  on, 

When  each  new  phase  of  things  appears, 
When,  as  the  old  days,  hence,  are  gone, 

The  new  come  on,  with  march  of  years. 

A  Man  is  needed ;  lo !  'tis  he 

Who  then  appears,  to,  destined,  stand. 
Where  he  of  service,  grand  may  be, 

Like  one  born,  duly,  close  at  hand. 

'Twas  so  with  Lincoln,  he  stood  where 
The  angry  powers,  together,  clashed, 

And,  midst  the  lightning's  lurid  glare, 
As  steel  and  flint,  together  flashed. 

There  was  he,  just  the  man  to  do, 

What,  scarce  another,  would  have  done, 

When,  thus  to  be,  to  right,  so  true, 
Was  not  the  guise  of  every  one. 


THE   REPUBLICAN  PARTY.  105 

And  well  it  was  a  Party  knew, 

Just  at  that  time,  what  man  to  choose, 

And,  just  what  freemen  ought  to  do, 
And  how,  the  ballot  best  to  use. 

The  nation  now,  with  high  acclaim, 
May  speak  of  Lincoln,  and  rejoice, 

But,  first,  Republicans,  did  name, 

And  make  him,  their  best,  chiefest  choice. 

That  grand  old  Party,  ever  true 
To  its  behests,  still  standeth  strong, 

Ready,  its  noble  work  to  do ; 

Oh !    may  it  stand,  right-faced,  and  long, 

With  honor,  principle,  and  just, 

To  hold  the  helm  of  our  grand  Ship ; 

For,  guided  by  one-else,  she  must 
Against  the  rocks,  most  hapless,  slip. 

True  to  the  cause  of  home  and  land ; 

^ 

True  to  the  temperance  cause,  to  be ; 
The  grand,  old  Host,  —  with  high  command, 
Must  lead  us  still  to  victory. 


106        JOHN   GREEN  LEAF   WHITTIER. 

For  we  have  interests,  still,  of  worth, 

Questions  of  vast  import  arise, 
And  everywhere,  from  all  the  earth, 

Are  turned  to  us  a  billion  eyes. 

Jeff  Davis ;  now  has  gone,  at  last, 

Death,  with  his  mandate,  doth  prevail, 

And  he  who  held  slaves'  bonds  so  fast, 
Is  held  by  bonds  that  will  not  fail 

To  hold  him,  unreleasing,  while 

The  years  go  on,  majestic  by, 
Until,  is  heard  through  age's  aisle, 

The  blast  of  judgment-trumpet,  high. 

But,  while  he's  dead,  and  slavery,  too, 
And  nevermore  the  curse,  we'll  feel, 

There  comes  to  us  a  question,  new, 

Which  shows  how  slowly  wounds  do  heal ; 

The  question,  whether,  now,  the  men 
Who  first,  as  slaves  to  us  were  brought, 

And  wrought  a  hundred  years,  and,  then, 
By  every,  slave-bond,  were  well-taught, 


BLACK  MEN  HAVE  RIGHTS.          107 

How  to  obey,  with  unpaid  toil, 

And  earn  their  Master's  daily  bread ; 

Tilling  the  ever  friendly  soil ; 

Not  owning  cover  for  the  head,  — 

Whether,  they,  now  shall  here  remain, 

•   v 

Or,  go  to  Africa,  since,  now, 
Is  broken,  their  hard,  galling  chain ; 

Since,  hence,  to  master  they'll  ne'er  bow, 

"  We  have  no  further  use  for  them, 
They've  out-lived  usefulness,  and  they 

Must  know  their  black  skin,  does  condemn, 
And  they  must  up,  and  go  away." 

But  they  are  here,  and  have  their  rights, 

The  highest  rights  of  all,  to  be 
Before  the  law,  equal,  —  and  might's 

High  presage  is  their  royalty. 

They  must  protected  be,  to  stay 

Or  go,  at  will,  as  other  men ; 
To  choose  their  place,  as  best  they  may, 

Nor  be  coerced,  or  bound  againt 


108        JOHX   GREEXLEAF    WH1TTIER. 

We  want  no  law  to  bid  them  go, 

Xor  make  their  stay  unpleasant  here ; 

They  must,  with  all  our  people,  know, 
That  they  can  stay,  with  happy  cheer, 

To  earn  their  bread,  to  be  men,  all, 

As  others,  who  their  equals  are, 
Equal  to  all,  whom  we  can  call 

Our  countrymen  here,  'neath  stripe  and  star ; 

To  educate  their  children  here, 

To  vote  as  the}'  may.  self-forced,  choose, 

And  never  feel  a  cringing  fear, 

When  they,  their  franchise-right,  shall  use. 

Thus  far  has  triumphed  their  boon-right ; 

Thus  far  they,  in  their  manhood,  stand ; 
And  right  protected  is,  by  might 

Of  all  the  armies  of  our  land. 

And  still  the  march  is  on.  and  still, 

The  progress  is  toward  the  day, 
When,  everywhere,  that  people  will 

Have  right,  to,  immolated,  stay. 


THE  RACE -WAR  FOOLISH.  109 

Why  not?     Why  seek  to  drive  them  off? 

Why  think  our  white-skin  or  blue-blood, 
Is  reason  at  them  thus,  to  scoff, 

As  though  we  were  superior  mud  ? 

Go  to ;  let's  stop  this  arrant  claim ; 

Go,  look  on  death,  see  how,  alike, 
No  matter  what  the  race  or  name, 

Death  does,  with  equal  blow,  all  strike. 

'Tis  foolish,  this  race-war,  this  feud  ; 

This  most  unrighteous,  unjust  claim ; 
And  only  those  who  are  imbued 

With  evil,  such  a  course  will  name. 

Now  so  far  we  have  come,  to  know 
The  old-time  fetter-clank,  has  gone, 

And  much  to  thee,  good  man,  we  owe, 
As  still  our  cause  is  marching  on. 

And  thou  hast  lived  to  see  the  time, 
When,  thus,  athwart  the  eastern  sky, 

There  shines  the  omen-star  sublime, 

Which  heralds  that  glad  day,  most  nigh, 


110       JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITT1ER. 

And  cheerful  words  I  bring  to  thee, 
In  these,  thy  days  of  feeble  age, 

The  thanks  of  millions,  who  must  be, 
Thy  Galaxy  of  friends  —  good  sage. 

Let  us  be  hopeful  God  still  lives ; 

Justice  and  judgment  His  high  throne 
Inhabit,  and  He  always  gives 

His  aid,  to  those  who,  His  cause,  own. 

Thou  hast  the  Freedman's  cause  espoused, 
And  not  alone  his  cause,  for  thou 

Hast,  ever,  thy  just  soul  aroused, 
For  all  who  burdened,  low  did  bow. 

See  who,  in  thorny  pathways,  knew 

The  hardships  of  a  bitter  lot, 
Who,  to  their  conscience-faith  were  true, 

Who  suffered,  yet  upbraided  not. 

The  hunted  outcasts,  who,  thus  bore, 
The  stigma,  with  no  quiet  rest, 

Driven,  like  dumb  dogs  from  the  door ; 
By  woes  and  ills  sorely  oppressed. 


BIGOT-ZEALOTS.  ill 

Their  only  crime  —  their  "  thee  "  arid  "  thou  " ; 

Their  harmless,  non-resisting  way  ; 
Their  faith  that,  they  must  worship  how, 

Their  conscience  taught,  God-moved,  to  pray. 

The  hot-head  bigot-zealots,  wild, 

Who  thought,  God-service  they  did  do, 

As  they  the  innocents  reviled, 

Were  by  thy  pen  brought  full  to  view, 

Their  portraits  thou  didst  draw,  to  life, 
With  every  lineament  clearly  traced, 

To  show  of  what  their  souls  were  rife, 
With  all  the  good  heart-lines  derased. 

Good  men,  perhaps  they  were,  like  Saul, 

Who,  armed  with  warrants,  chased  the  saints 

Unto  Damascus,  but,  the  Paul, 

Aside  set  Saul,  by  God's  restraints. 

It  takes  sometimes  a  lightning  flash, 
Which  first  may  blind  the  zealot's  eyes, 

Then,  after  that  loud  thunder-crash, 
The  scales  may  fall  to  his  surprise. 


112       JOHN    GREEXLEAF    WHITTIE&. 

So  he  may  see,  as  ne'er  before, 

What-of,  his  conscience- work  was  made, 
And,  like  that  Saul,  he  may  deplore, 

That  he  made  goad  men  thus  afraid. 

God  uses  men  like  thee,  to  do 

Such  work,  as  will,  at  length,  avail, 

And  thou  hast  been,  to  thy  work,  true, 
Although  men  did  like  daemons  rail. 

Thou  didst  well-champion  the  cause, 
Of  those  who  were,  of  rights  denied, 

E'en,  when  against  them,  stood  the  laws, 
By  which  they  were  severely  tried. 

Laws  framed,  to  do  them,  unjust  hurt, 

And,  though  they  lived  lives,  spotless,  pure, 

They  were  besmeared,  dragged  in  the  dirt, 
Such  harmful  treatment  to  endure. 

Or,  more,  chased,  banished  from  their  home, 
'•  By  order  of  the  Supreme  Court/' 

And  made,  in  far-lands,  poor,  to  roam, 
Of  beasts  and  Indians  the  sport. 


WIZARDS-WITCHES.  113 

Or,  hanged  for  witches  in  the  town 
Of  Salem,  Puritan  and  straight 

With  Orthodoxy's,  good  renown, 
Yet  full  of  most  unrighteous  hate. 

So,  all,  who  were  suspects,  and  held, 
To  answer  to  the  wondrous  test, 

By  which  they  were  at  last,  compelled 
To  hang,  with  most  religious  zest. 

Both  men  and  women  thus  were  hanged, 
Wizards  and  witches  ;  women,  who, 

If  but  their  tongue  a  moment  clanged, 
Must  know  how  Satan's  work  to  do. 

And  those  poor  children,  Goodwin's,  all 
Who,  innocent  of  crime,  were  tried, 

And  felt  the  blow  upon  them  fall, 
And  in  their  childish  prattling,  died, 

And  Roger  Sherman,  Baptist  he, 
Like  Quakers,  for  the  faith  he  held, 

Banished,  to  Providence  did  flee ; 
Being,  by  unjust  laws,  compelled. 


114        JOHN  ORE  EX  LEAF    WHITTIER. 

For  cause  of  such,  thy  ready  word 
Was  like,  a  bugle,  clear  and  strong, 

Which,  all  the  world  around,  is  heard; 
A  clarion  note,  condemning  wrong. 

'Twas  all  inwrought  in  thy  good  verse, 

That,  thenceforth,  world-wide,  mankind,  all. 

As  they  the  every  act  rehearse, 

Shall,  tliee,  the  Friend  of  Sufferers,  call. 

For  conscience-freedom  thou  didst  speak, 
That  all,  to  worship,  should  be  free ; 

Whoever,  bowing,  soul-full,  meek, 
Should,  in  their  rights  protected,  be. 

So,  banished  Quaker's  cause  was  sung, 
And  Goodman  Macy's,  —  at  whose  door 

Come,  gray-beard-man,  of  solemn  tongue, 
'Gainst  whom  the  sheriff  madly  swore. 

The  blatant  sheriff-ruffian,  and 

The  priest  bag-wigged  with  flowing  gown ; 
Who  raced  themselves  down  to  the  strand, 

Which  bordered  on  old  Salisbury's  town ; 


PROTEST.  115 

Who  thought  themselves  commissioned,  high, 

To  do  God-service,  and  to  bring 
The  fleeing  back,  for  courts  to  try, 

And  honor  thus,  Great  George,  the  King. 

Such  things  were,  by  thy  pen,  portrayed, 
And  each  was  held  to  mirror,  true, 

Enough  to  make  daemons  afraid, 

And  make  bad  men,  their  vile  deeds  rue. 


Thou  didst  protest  and  cry  aloud, 

Against  the  wrongs,  which  so  distressed ; 

Against  the  clamoring,  angry  crowd ; 
Against  those  who  such  souls  oppressed. 


And  every  sufferer  had  a  friend, 
In  thee,  and  every  tyrant  knew 

That  thou,  thine  aid  wouldst,  ever,  lend, 
Against  him,  and  his  wicked  crew. 

And  not  for  men  alone,  thy  pen, 

Hath  been  the  shining  shaft  of  light ; 

For,  vale  and  mountain,  rock  and  glen, 
Have  found  a  tongue,  as  songful  Wight. 


116        JOHN  GREEXLEAF  WHITTIER. 

To  sing  refrain,  though  but  the  voice 
Is  known,  the  echo  of  thine  own ; 

As  though  all  nature  doth  rejoice, 
That  it  shall  dwell  no  more  alone. 

They  have  a  smoothly  cadenced  tongue, 
And,  beauteous,  are  with  quiet  grace, 

Since  thou  hast  of  them  sweetly  sung, 
Their  legends,  in  thy  lines  to  trace. 

Nothing's  too  drear  or  desolate, 

For  thee  to  touch*  and  make  it  glow, 

Thus  saving  them  the  direful  fate, 

That  none,  their  place,  should,  ever,  know ; 

Sand-hills  and  marshes,  ponds  and  bogs, 
The  wastes  of  nature,  which  the  eye 

Would  turn  from,  where  the  tuneful  frogs 
Alone   would   sing  —  where    winds   would 
sigh,  — 

Have  caught  the  music  of  thy  song, 
Now,  with  a  life-pulse-sense,  to  thrill, 

Echoing  through  all  their  scenes,  along, 
With  thy  grand  song,  their  notes  to  fill. 


PLACES  BY  POETRY  RENOWNED.     117 

Some  Indian  legend,  or,  perchance, 

Some  weird  phantasm,  Ghoul  or  Sprite ; 

Or,  fairy's,  with  fantastic  dance  ; 
Or,  Apparition  of  the  night. 

"  Plumb  Island,  lies,  a  whale  aground," 

Stranded  along  the  ocean's  shore, 
With  many  a  barren  sandy  mound, 

All  verdureless,  from  days  of  yore, 

And  Black  Rocks,  on  the  other  side, 
And  Isles  of  Shoals,  far  out  at  sea, 

Where  Hamadryads,  did  abide  ; 
All  owe  their  fame,  poet,  to  thee. 

And  up  the  river,  where  the  tide 

Flows  back  to  Salisbury's,  low-marshed  shore, 
Where  Macy's  skiff  did  lightly  ride, 

Who  took  that  voyage,  unknown  before, 

And  Chain  Bridge  and  Deer  Island  hold 
A  spell  thou  gavest  them  in  song; 

And  shores,  where  dashing  billows  bold, 
Break  all  the  sandy  beach,  along. 


118        JOHN   <;UEEXLEAE    WH1TTIER. 

And  Craneneck  Hill ;  and  Indian  where 
Old  Tom,  the  Great,  once  held  his  sway, 

Crane  Pond  and  Dole's  —  with,  wonders  rare, 
Where  pickerel  'neath  the  pads,  oft  play. 

And  Pickerel  Pond,  in  Haverhill  Town, 
Hath  now,  a  smoother,  softer  name, 

Kenoza,  and  a  good  renown 

It  has,  though  Pickerel  'tis,  the  same. 

Never  had  Craneneck  Hill  been  known, 

Beyond  the  local  home-folk  lore  ; 
Nor  pond,  nor  rock,  nor  tree,  could  own 

Such  classic  fame  as  this,  before, 

With  song  thou  hast  endowed  them  all, 

Which  gives  them  names,  and  makes  them 
known. 

Till  men,  the  places,  curious  call, 
And  their  weird  fascinations  own. 

Thus,  all  are  voiced,  by  thy  sweet  art, 
And  sing,  responsive  to  thy  praise, 

And  waken,  in  each  senseful  heart, 
Voiceful,  melodious,  joyous  lays. 


MY  DEBT.  119 

Fame-wide,  are  now  these  song-scenes,  all 

Associated  with  thy  name, 
And  light,  and  shadow,  interfall 

A  shade  a  moment,  then  a  flame. 

They  tell  of  thee,  though  first  of  God, 

Their  Great  Creator  mighty,  who 
Did,  by  His  fiat  and  His  nod, 

Make  all  things,  at  creation,  new. 

If  they  can  speak  of  thee,  then,»I, 

Indebted  am,  far  more  than  they ; 
And  with  them,  I  would,  voiceful,  vie, 

In  this  my  humble,  kindly,  lay, 

For  thy  birthday  has  given  me, 
Allegiance,  by  the  strongest  band, 

Binding  me,  this  day,  to  thee, 

With  many  a  silken,  woven  strand. 

I  must  thus  feel  the  influence,  strong, 
Which  draws  me  close  to  thee,  to  make 

These  chords,  the  chords  of  sweetest  song, 
Whose  heart-strings,  touched,  attuned,  awake. 


120        JOHN   GREEXLEAF    WHITTIER. 

I  give  to  thee  my  greeting  hand, 

I  speak  my  words  \vitli  friendly  voice, 

As  though  I,  by  thy  side,  did  stand, 
And  with  thee  did,  the  while,  rejoice. 

To  me  thine  ever  beauteous  light, 
Is  precious,  hence,  forever  more ; 

The  written  years,  in  letters  bright, 

Are  EIGHTEEX-SEYEX,  and  THIRTY-FOUR, 

I'll  cherish  them,  as  time  goes  by, 
And  drop  for  thee  the  kindly  tear, 

If,  first,  thou,  liest  down  to  die. 

Standing,  perchance,  beside  thy  bier, 

I'll  say,  "  Blest  be  the  memory 

Of  him,  the  poet  of  my  choice ; 
Blest  be  the  world,  thenceforth,  that,  he 

Hath  uttered,  thus,  with  sweet-toned  voice, 

His  words,  poetic,  which  shall  roll, 

Like  music  through  the  shining  spheres, 

To  fill  each  listening,  raptured  soul, 
With  holy  joy,  while  come  the  years : 


Ml'    Tlil BUTE.  121 

All  full  of  beauty,  by  thy  lays, 

And  resonant  with  voice  of  psalm; 

As  priests,  who  intertone  their  praise, 

And  wave  the  green,  wide-spreading  palm, 

Of  this,  I  sing  with  joy  to-day, 

For,  who,  thus,  near  thee,  but  must  sing, 
Although  my  feebler,  humbler  lay, 

Soars  not  like  thine,  on  lark's  high  wing. 

• 

'Tis  but  my  tribute  to  thy  worth, 

To  thy  swreet  influence,  o'er  my  heart, 

Because  thy  birthday  gave  me  birth : 
For  this,  I  cannot  from  thee  part. 

I  feel  thee  near  me,  sir,  to-day, 
This  seventeenth,  the  day  so  rare, 

And  I  will,  ever,  for  thee  pray, 
And  seek  for  thee,  "  OUR  FATHER'S  "  care. 

Wilt  thou  then  these  lines  welcome  give, 
These  homely  lines  of  kind  intent, 

That  tell  how,  by  this  day,  I  live  ; 
Since  all  but  for  the  best  are  meant? 


122        JOHN    GREEMEAF    }\'JIITTIER. 

This  clay  thy  precious  life  began, 
And  ran  along  until  I  came, 

Caught  on,  and,  with  it,  thenceforth,  ran, 
Until  it  is,  to  both  the  same, 

And  both  together,  thence  are  tied, 
In  one  completed,  Gordian  knot ; 

And  each,  with  each,  thus  close  allied, 
Shall  never  be,  through  life,  forgot, 

Thy  years  now  number  eiyhty-tivo,1 
My  years  are  fifty-five,  and  we 

Have  seen  our  years  pass  in  review, 
Never  so  many  more  we'll  see. 

As  runs  the  glass  its  swift,  still  sands, 
So  our  lives,  swiftly  speed  away, 

And  near  us,  possibly,  he  stands, 

Death's  messenger  to  call,  straightway. 

And  we  may  never,  well-pleased,  meet, 
To  feel  the  pressure  of  each  hand, 

And,  each,  the  other,  kindly  greet, 
And,  in  each  other's  presence  stand. 

i  On  Dec.  17,  1889. 


THE   SUN-STAR.  123 

I've  near  thee  been,  yet  it  was  far, 

I've  known  thee, — all  the  while  unseen, 

Thou  Sun,  hast  been  to  me  a  star, 
Since  distance  did  so  intervene. 

But  it  was  light  to  me,  I  feel, 

That,  'tis  my  light's  best  radiance,  bright, 
Of  sweetest  thought,  and  happiest  weal, 

With  sense  of  purest  toned  delight ; 

And  so  this  birthday,  —  thine  and  mine 

Is  one  unmeasured  happiness  ; 
And  join  I  thus,  my  name  with  thine, 

That  mine,  thine  may,  by  contact,  bless. 

If  I  see  not  thy  face  —  nor  hold 

Thy  hand,  with  joy,  in  mine, 
Yet  I  am  with  the  thought  consoled, 

That  my  birthday  is  also  thine. 

But  yet  I  hope  still,  that  e'er  the  gates, 
Swing  in,  upon  their  grating  hinge, 

And  that  grim  messenger,  who  waits, 
And,  to  thee  thy  last  summons  brings, 


124        JOHX   GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

To  hide  thee  from  the  mortal  sight, 
Of  those  who  love  thee,  evermore, 

In  the  clamp  rayless,  death-dark,  night, 
While  moves  the  world  on,  as  before. 

Ere  then,  thy  face  I  hope  to  see, 

If  but  a  moment,  that  my  hand 
Miy  clasp  thine,  then  —  the  pledge  to  me, 

Of  friendship,  —  truest  strongest  band. 

And  then  the  vision  of  thy  face, 

Will  strengthen  me,  and  I'll  remember 

More  in  the  heart's  best,  home-kept,  place, 
THIS  SEVENTEENTH  DAY  OF  OUR  DECEMBER. 

The  day  shall,  ever,  thenceforth,  come, 
Upon  its  yearly,  time-fixed  round, 

Not  as  a  mute,  all  voiceless,  dumb, 

But  chorused  with  full-chimed,  glad  sound 

Of  voices,  mingling  in  the  air, 

Singing  in  tones,  most  sweet  to  me, 

On  earth  so  unknown  and  so  rare, 
The  song  of  this,  the  meed  to  thee. 


/   BLESS    THEE.  125 

I'll  bless  thee  for  it,  and  may  God 
Bless  thee,  and  lead  thee  by  the  hand 

With  comfort,  of  His  staff  and  rod, 
And  bring  thee  to  the  border-land ; 

Then,  gently,  lay  thee  down  to  sleep, 
Closing  thine  eyes,  for  qniet  rest, 

While,  well-appointed  angels  keep 
Thee,  in  thy  sleep,  secure  and  blest, 

Until  the  last  grand  morn  shall  break, 
In  beauty  through  the  ambient  skies ; 

Then  mayst  thou,  all  immortal  wake, 
And  in  the  Saviour's  image  rise. 

I  may  work  briefly  for  a  while, 

Preaching  wherever  I  may  be, 
With  prayer,  that  Heaven  may  on  me  smile, 

And  I  some  fruitage-good  may  see. 

If  I  the  Christ  may,  fully,  preach, 

Him  of  Judea  and  Galilee  ; 
And,  in  His  name,  the  lowly  reach, 

That  they,  his  kindly  face  may  see, 


126        JOHN   GREEXLEAE    WHITTIER. 

I  will  be  satisfied,  nor  ask 

A  higher  honor  —  and,  when  done, 
My  pleasing,  well-appointed  task, 

It  ending,  with  life's  setting  sun, 

Then,  I  shall  sleep,  and  I  shall  rise, 

When  comes  the  morn  of  that  glad  day, 

When,  coming  through  the  parting  skies, 
The  Christ  will  speed  him  on  his  way, 

Back  to  the  earth,  he  trod  before, 
But  not,  as  when  he  here,  awhile, 

The  thorn-crown,  ignominious,  wore, 
When  in  Him,  Pilate  found  no  guile, 

But,  in  His  glory-bright,  to  reign ; 

Fixing  his  throne  where  David's  stood ; 
When  earth  shall  bloom  and  smile  again, 

And  grows  the  Life  Tree's,  forest-wood. 

Then  may  we  sing  amidst  the  throng, 
The  multitude  redeemed  shall  sing, 

The  glad  Hosannas,  rapturous  song, 
As  God  shall  His,  to  Zion  bring. 


BENEDICTION.  127 

Meanwhile,  thou  for  the  end,  wilt  wait 

In  quiet  peace,  relieved  of  care ; 
Dear,  precious  friend,  whom  none  can  hate, 

Waiting  amidst  the  gloaming  there. 

Now  friend,  adieu — with  Crod — may  He 
Bless  thee,  forever,  through  His  Son ; 

By  His  own  Spirit,  all,  the  three, 
Until,  at  last,  thy  life  is  done, 

Then  thou  shalt  rest  the  little  ivhile, 
Until  the  morning-light  shall  dawn ; 

And,  when  all  nature,  in  its  smile, 
Shall  answer,  the  salute  of  morn; 

Then  may  we  meet,  where  friends  abide, 

Forever,  without  age  or  pain, 
Where  flows  life's  river's  healing  tide, 

Where  Christ,  The  King  of  Earth,  Shall  Reign. 


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